Disappearing Home (8 page)

I ride through an old puddle with the front tyre, draw an S over and over, until there's a chain of them the length of the square. Lift the handlebars up, ride with just the back wheel on the ground, until it slams down like a horse refusing a fence. Pedal backwards round and round again and again in a complete circle, until I'm dizzy.

Use the tip of my sole to spin down one pedal fast, listen to the
whirr
and watch the edges blur. Make it go fast without using the pedals. Bum off the seat, run it down a hill, jump back on, legs out to the side screaming
wheeee wheeee.
Trace the way thick rubber zigzags across the tyres.

When I get back, I lift the Chopper up the stairs, careful not to bash it against the walls when I turn a corner. I get to our door all out of puff. Before I can knock, the door is flung open. He grabs the bike into the lobby and turns on the light. Slams the front door shut. Gets down on his knees, feels the tyres, spins the wheels around and checks the yellow paintwork. Licks the tip of
his finger, rubs away dark splashes. Spins the pedals forwards and backwards, pulling the brakes hard.

He looks up at me, his dark eyes small. ‘You've hammered this, you ungrateful bastard.'

I look down at the floor. He stands, pushes his face too close to mine. I can smell beer and smoke on his breath and it makes me feel sick. ‘You don't deserve to have it. It isn't even paid for yet. Get to bed now.'

In the last year of junior school, we get to go on a trip away from home, for a whole week in May, to a place called Colomendy. Mr Thorpe gives us all a letter to take home, saying a small deposit is needed as soon as possible. We will be given a payment card and we can pay whatever we like off the trip, as long as it is all paid two weeks before we go. The classroom buzzes with the news. Outside, letters are waved high at the gate.

When I get home Dad puts my letter on the mantelpiece. ‘What have you been up to?'

‘Nothing.'

‘What's all this then?'

‘Don't know,' I lie.

Mum takes the thick glossy catalogue off her knee and puts it on the floor. ‘I'll open it,' she says.

She tells him it's about a trip away for a week.

‘How much?'

She tells him and he says bloody schools and their bloody money. ‘If she carries on wrecking that bike the way she has been doing, she's got no chance.'

Mum shouts at Dad. ‘Don't dictate to me what Robyn can and can't do. She is going, and I'll make sure of it.' I'm going away soon, I'll be able to tell Nan. A tiny balloon painted rainbow
colours swirls in my chest. It fills me, from my toes right up to my head. I rub my hands together and feel it inside them. This, I think, is what happy feels like.

The next time I take the bike out I ride it through to a square I have never been in before. This square is darker than ours, calmer, with less wind. It smells stuffy, like a slept in bedroom. I sit on the seat and look up at the early morning washing lines. A couple of shirts wave their arms at me; a skirt flips up a whoops-a-daisy hem.

On the top landing, last door on the right, heavy jeans in three different sizes with their pockets hanging open touching the wind. Cream sweaters, with three brown stars on the front and knitted collars. Three lads I'd say: a toddler, one a bit younger than me and a bigger one.

Going into this new square is like entering a different country. Heads above the landings are familiar but different. Reading the washing lines makes me feel like I am visiting a relative. I don't have any aunties or uncles. The only homes I have ever been in, apart from our flat, is Joan's house, Angela's house and Nan's new flat. It is a perfect way for me to find out about other people's lives, without them knowing anything at all about me.

I ride the bike back into our square. Dad watches over the landing. He tosses his head towards the stairs for me to come up. I stand up, try to get off the bike, but the pedals dig into the backs of my legs, trapping me. He carries on watching. The tip of the seat pushes into my back like a gun.

B
efore the end of morning assembly, Mr Merryville asks us to put our hands together. We are to say an Eternal Rest, for Arthur Raynard who died last weekend. When we have finished, Mr Merryville's shoes squeak, squeak across the polished floor, like there's an army of mice inside. They stop at Angela. He tells everyone how Angela, a valued member of our school, and her mother, are to be commended for being of great comfort to Mrs Raynard during her time of need. He pats Angela's head. Angela's red face disappears behind her hands.

Later that morning when we are in the middle of doing collective nouns, Mr Merryville comes into our classroom. Mr Thorpe's face brightens. He picks a brand new stick of chalk from the box. ‘Ah, you're just in time to witness how well the class is doing with their collective nouns.' He turns to the board.

Mr Merryville scans the room. ‘Yes, yes, wonderful I'll bet. I'm here to borrow Angela. Ah, there you are.' He's managed to get a man from the local paper, to interview Angela and her mother. They're in his office right now. ‘Exciting stuff,' he says, mainly to himself, rubbing his hands together like he's trying to start a fire.

Mr Thorpe says nothing. The chalk drops to his side. He watches Mr Merryville leave the room, pat, patting Angela's head. When the door closes, Mr Thorpe snaps the chalk in half and throws it on the floor. Rubbing his hands together to remove the chalk, he looks around the room. This happens sometimes, when Mr Merryville has interrupted the lesson. He will stand up, walk around the room trying to find things, things that didn't bother him before. The number eleven at the top of his nose has changed into a V.

‘Tommy Taylor, have you had breakfast?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Then why are you eating your cuff? Maureen Clarke?'

Maureen looks astonished. ‘Yes, sir?'

‘Stop chewing your hair. You'll drown the nits.'

Her face flushes pink. ‘Sorry, sir.'

He spies the lid off the biscuit tin. ‘Who has been at the tin?'

Faces drop under Mr Thorpe's eyes.

‘Anybody?'

Silence.

He looks inside the tin. ‘They must have eaten themselves then.' His head shakes. He lifts the tin up, bends his knees and tilts his head to look underneath. Like a magician, he taps the side of the tin with a ruler. Shakes his head again, tips the tin upside-down. A few crumbs and an empty packet of Rich Tea spill to the floor.

‘I placed a packet of biscuits in here yesterday. A full packet. Now they've gone. We must have a mouse. Don't you think?'

No answer.

‘Cat got your tongues?'

Silence.

Mr Thorpe picks up the empty packet, walks over to Tommy Taylor and scrunches it under his nose.

He found a fistful of broken biscuits once, in Tommy's pocket. Tommy blinks his eyes away inside his head. When he opens them again, Mr Thorpe digs him in the ribs with the ruler. Tommy knows what's coming so he rolls to the floor with a thud. Mr Thorpe walks back to the tin.

‘No more biscuit money out of my pockets for greedy mice.' He picks the tin up and drops it
clang
into the bin under his desk.

Tommy starts to get up.

‘Stay where you are.'

Trisha Fisher raises her hand.

Mr Thorpe ignores her.

He walks back over to Tommy. ‘Open your mouth.'

Tommy opens his mouth and Mr Thorpe pokes his nose too close inside and sniffs. I imagine Tommy sinking his teeth deep into the nose, while we all pile in and thump Mr Thorpe until he drops to the floor, staring up at something that looks like his nose sticking out of Tommy Taylor's teeth. He grasps at the place on his face where it once was. We watch him watch Tommy swallow it down whole.

Mr Thorpe starts to shake Tommy's sleeves. Up and down they go, like a scarecrow in a windy field.

‘Maybe they're up his sleeve, crumbs hidden inside his ripped cuffs? Is that why you nibble them?'

He bends down, drags the jumper up over Tommy's head. His ears get stuck in the neck and he lets out a moan. Mr Thorpe pulls harder; they spring pinky-red back into view. Once the jumper is off, Mr Thorpe shakes it, throws it to the floor.

Trisha Fisher puts up her hand again.

‘What, girl?'

‘I need the toilet, sir.'

He checks the clock on the wall. ‘You can wait until break.'

Trisha Fisher leans forward ready to pounce at the clock.

‘A scabby little mouse has poked its greedy nose into my biscuit tin and ate the lot. What's to be done?'

Gavin Rossiter puts his hand up.

‘What is it, Rossiter?'

‘You could lock them away, sir, so scabby little mice can't get them.'

‘Lock them away? What do you think they are, prisoners of war?'

Trisha Fisher's hand goes up again. Her wide scribbly mouth is closed tight. Her mum's been up to the school before; she told Mr Merryville Trisha's got to go to the toilet whenever she needs to cos she's got a weak bladder.

Mr Thorpe looks at her, his voice has risen to a scream. ‘I said wait.'

He walks back over to Tommy. ‘I know who to lock away in a cupboard. Dirty little thieves who steal things that don't belong to them.'

My face burns.

Somebody squeaks pissy wissy at Trisha Fisher.

She bursts into tears.

Mr Thorpe walks back to his desk and leans against it, like it's an old friend.

I look across at Stephen Foley; he's got his palms over his ears. The sound of the bell makes us all look at the clock.

Tommy Taylor jumps up, wearing just his vest. Slips back into his seat. He stoops, not taking his eyes off Mr Thorpe, paws around the floor for his jumper, finds it, holds it to his chest. The bell rings again. Breathless, we wait to be dismissed. With a careless hand, Mr Thorpe waves us away. Tommy legs it across the room, wriggling back inside his jumper. Trisha Fisher, cupping the middle of her skirt, knees locked, takes baby steps towards the door.

Once we are on the playground, I hear Anthony Greenbank talking to Gavin about Mr Thorpe. ‘He's a loony.'

‘I know,' Gavin says. ‘All over a crummy biscuit.' They don't laugh. It's too soon to pretend it was funny.

Anthony tells Gavin about Arthur Raynard. ‘He used to let me off if I never had enough money. Once, these big kids robbed my dad's paper money off me. When I told him what had happened, he gave me the
Echo
for free. Dolly would never let you off like that.'

I turn to Kevin and whisper. ‘Who was Arthur Raynard?'

He shakes his head. ‘Dolly's husband, you nit.'

I can hear Dad's shiny cherry blossom shoes
clit-clat
down the stairs. Stop halfway. He taps his pockets but the matches aren't there, so he turns around, shoes
shish shish
back up the stairs.

The scrape of the key in the lock then his voice from the hall: ‘Get my matches off the mantelpiece.'

And Mum, handing them to me out of her pocket.

In the hall, holding open the front door, see him shake them to his ear. ‘They're not mine. Off the mantelpiece, I said.'

Back into the living room, Mum's already got them open. Takes out a pinchful, tucks them, goodnight God bless, inside the box I hold.

When he's gone, I walk into the kitchen. Mum is rolling the tip of her cigarette across the electric ring. Little sparks of fire fall to the floor, burn themselves out halfway down. She draws on the tip, blows out a mouthful of smoke that fills the tiny room. ‘Bastard,' she says in a quiet voice.

He's just flung his tea all up the wall. Said he didn't like liver and onions, she should know that by now.

She told him to fuck off. He sprang up out of the chair. Got the shoe polish and brush from his all-dolled-up box under the sink, said he'd do just that.

On the playground, freezing winds blow up from the Mersey, rattling the open windows. The sound of his name, Arthur Raynard, blown inside classrooms like dead leaves. Something bad has happened to Mr Dolly and I didn't catch it in time.

Trisha Fisher skips around the playground, her face unscrewed. Tommy Taylor sits on the ground, back against the wall, eyes everywhere, as if something of his has been stolen. There's a crowd around Angela. I stand right at the back where she can't see me. Since the vanity case thing happened, there's a part of me that thinks if she doesn't see me, she'll forget all about me, and what I did.

Angela tells everybody, like she's on the telly: she was in Dolly's shop with her mum when the police came. Dolly was standing on her little ladder, reaching to the top shelf to weigh two ounces of jelly babies.

Tipping them into the scale, she said she might take a nap, in about half an hour, when Arthur got back.

Dolly split open a box of Galaxy Counters, stood them to attention behind each other inside the glass counter.

And the police officers who walked in, saying her name like a question.
Dolly Raynard?
Asked her if there was somewhere private. Somewhere they could talk?

Handing over the jelly babies to Angela's mum, Dolly said she couldn't leave the shop, so they could say what they had to say right there.

They told her there had been an accident. Mr Raynard.

Angela's mum handed the coins over, took the white paper bag. Asked Dolly if there was anything she could do.

Dolly twisted the lid back on the jar, left it on the side; lifted the end bit of the counter up in her hand so they could pass through to the other side.

At the shop door, Mrs Leary,
ooeee
ing to Dolly that she'd meet her at seven o'clock, outside the bingo.

Dolly handed Angela's mum the keys, told her to lock the door. Just for a little while.

Angela and her mum guarded the shop on their own, while Dolly took the officers upstairs.

People banged on the door. Her mum said
clear off
under her breath and wrote on a ripped paper bag
BACK IN TEN MINUTES
then taped it to the front door.