In Search of Adam Read online

  The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. She had given me a world where strange was normal. Where animals could talk. Where children were brave. And strong. And clever. Where good conquered evil. Where fur coats hung in a wardrobe. She gave me an escape. I read the book fourteen times in nineteen days. I took it back to her. I told Miss Waters all about Lucy and Peter and Mr Tumnus and Edmund and Susan and Mr Beaver and Giant Rumblebuffin and Aslan and the White Witch. I told her all about it. And she smiled. Big wide smiles. Then. She told me that the book was mine. That I could keep it forever. Her eyes were shiny with water. But she was smiling. Wide across her face. Then she told me that I was the reason why she wanted to teach. She cried. They were happy tears. I didn’t understand. She told me that I was special. I wished that I could tell her how special she was. I wished that I could empty my head and tell Miss Waters everything. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t find the words.

  Miss Waters. I didn’t know how old she was. I think that she was older than me but younger than Aunty Maggie (Number 30). She might have been as old as my mother. She didn’t have a husband. She didn’t have any children. She told the class that she didn’t have any children. She lived to teach me. We were all her children. But. I was the reason why she was a teacher. She had told me that. Miss Waters taught me that I should read books. And I did. I read all the books that I could find. Miss Waters told me that it was okay to be different.

  I loved her. Really I loved her. I wished that I could go to her house. I wished that I could follow her home and see where she lived. But. She drove a brown car and I couldn’t keep up running after it. I tried. She saw me and waved. She didn’t stop. I loved that she told me of worlds and experiences that my father never would. I loved that she told me of lands that my mother would have known. I loved that she came to my school.

  October 7 1983

  Mr and Mrs Symons got a new car.

  NUMBER 1. MR AND MRS NORTH. RED CAR. DFT 678T. NUMBER 2. MRS HODGSON. RED CAR. GYS 606S. NUMBER 3. MR AND MRS DRAKE. RED CAR. MATCHES FRONT DOOR. EVS 343V. NUMBER 4. MR AND MRS BLACK. BLACK CAR. MATCHES THEIR NAME. POK 776T. NUMBER 5. MRS GRANT. NO CAR. NUMBER 6. MR AND MRS WOOD. WHITE CAR. NPK 911V. NUMBER 7. MR AND MRS LANCASTER. BLACK CAR. GOY 443V. NUMBER 8. MR AND MRS DOUGLAS. GREEN CAR. RTS 446T. NUMBER 9. BILL AND JUDE WILLIAM. YELLOW CAR. KON 908V. NUMBER 10. MR AND MRS RUSSELL. RED CAR. MATCHES DOOR. GOT 654V. NUMBER 11. MR AND MRS SYMONS. RED CAR. HYT 664X. NUMBER 12. MR AND MRS WARD. MAROON CAR. FVX 404W. NUMBER 13. MRS THOMAS. NO CAR. NUMBER 14. MR AND MRS CLARK. YELLOW CAR. SAME AS MRS JOHNSON’S BUT SHINIER. FDT 609X. NUMBER 15. MR AND MRS SHEPHARD. NO CAR. NUMBER 16. MR AND MRS SMITH. RED CAR. PHC 665X. NUMBER 17. MR LEWIS. NO CAR. NUMBER 18. MR AND MRS ANDREWS. GREEN CAR. MYG 553W. NUMBER 19. MR AND MRS JOHNSON. YELLOW CAR. SAME AS MR CLARK’S. DEW 664T. NUMBER 20. MRS CURTIS. NO CAR. NUMBER 21. MR AND MRS ROBERTS. WHITE CAR. GOP 143W. NUMBER 22. MR AND MRS WALLACE. BLUE CAR. MATCHES FRONT DOOR. MTR 320X. NUMBER 23. MR AND MRS SMITH. WHITE VAN. CWS 694V. NUMBER 24. MR AND MRS WALKER. BLUE CAR. LPY 529W. NUMBER 25. MR AND MRS SCOTT. NO CAR. NUMBER 26. MR AND MRS BRUCE. RED CAR. SRT 744S. NUMBER 27. MR AND MRS PESCOTT. YELLOW CAR. PLB533X. NUMBER 28. MR AND MRS STEVENSON. BROWN CAR. KHC 807R. NUMBER 29. MR AND MRS DORAN. NO CAR. NUMBER 30. AUNTY MAGGIE. NO CAR. NUMBER 31. MR AND MRS GIBBONS. BLUE CAR. MATCHES FRONT DOOR. FKT 264R. NUMBER 32. MR AND MRS ALEXANDER. GREY CAR OR MAYBE SILVER. FFH 335V.

  I was so angry when I saw their new car. I shouted at them. They were driving past. They must have seen me jumping. Jumping in anger. On the grey slabs.

  Angry. Angry.

  I had so much work to do.

  I had new sums to do.

  I had to do them.

  Straight away.

  Couldn’t wait.

  My green notebook. Waiting on my windowsill. I had to tear out the other pages. I had to tear out the pages with the wrong numbers. With the wrong number plates. They were messy. They were wrong. Be gone. Be gone. I ripped them out. My green notebook had to be perfect. They spoiled my green notebook. There were pages ripped out. It wasn’t the same anymore. I had to buy a new one. A new green notebook. I found the same one in Brian’s Newsagents. It cost 47p. I copied everything out of the old ruined one and into the new perfect one.

  Red cars = 7

  Green cars = 2

  Yellow cars = 4

  White cars = 2 (1 white van)

  Brown cars = 1

  Grey or maybe silver cars = 1

  Maroon cars = 1

  Blue cars = 3

  Black cars = 2

  Number of cars = 23 cars. 1 van

  No cars = 8

  Nitty Nora the Dickie explorer was coming. A letter was being sent home to parents. That wasn’t her real name. The school nurse was called Suzanne Jones. She was thin. Rectangular. As high as the ceiling. Her shoulders were perfectly flat. She never smiled. She hugged her black clipboard and she made ticks and crosses next to each of our names. She examined our heads. Our ears and our mouths and our eyes. In the staff room. During lessons. Never during playtime.

  I had nits again. Every year she found them. Every year she gave me a bright pink slip to give to my father. I walked out of the staffroom. Clutching the pink slip. Everyone knew.

  They could see the tiny creatures jumping and bouncing and dancing on my head. Bounce bounce bounce. I never scratched. I wanted to. But. But I was frightened that the nits might crawl under my finger nails. And burrow into my skin. Paul Hodgson (Number 2) told me all about nits. He had a book with a picture of one. It was huge.

  The children knew it was best not to get too close. Nits could jump. Really high. Really far. Nits could jump from head to head. Bounce bounce bounce. They laid eggs in hair. Or even into your scalp. They would build houses. Bounce off to collect sticks. Twigs. Leaves. Anything they could find for their shelter. Paul Hodgson (Number 2) told me that once you had nits, you had them forever. Forever and ever and ever. He said that I’d have to tell everyone that I ever met that I had nits. He said that I was infested. That I was beyond hope. I didn’t understand.

  I gave Rita the bright pink slip. No use telling my father. Rita didn’t read the slip. I had to tell her that I had nits. Like Paul said. I had to tell everyone. It was my duty. I was infested. Rita screamed when I told her. She jumped away from me. But. She did buy some special shampoo. From the late night chemist in North Shields. She washed her own hair. And my fathers. Scraped a metal comb through her hair. And my father’s. Found a couple of adult nits. No eggs. I didn’t understand. She didn’t wash my hair. She wouldn’t come near me. Told me to lock myself in the bathroom. Told me to scrub. Scrub. Scrub my hair. Divvent come oot till all the buggers are gan. I could use her shampoo. It smelled like the oil that leaked from my father’s Mini. I liked the smell.

  I scrubbed till my fingertips hurt. I tried to feel for the homes. I was terrified that the nits would bite off my fingers. They didn’t. Then I combed my hair. Over a white piece of paper.

  Sixty-five drowned creatures. Twenty-four eggs.

  I folded them all. Folded the white piece of paper around them. I kept them. In my navy blue cylinder tin. It had a gold trim and EIIR in gold lettering.

  Exhibit number four—my collection of nits.

  November 25 1983. I was ten years one day old.

  Miss Waters was teaching us about traditional tales. Little Red Riding Hood. Hansel and Gretel. We were going to write our own stories. I had never written a story before.

  My tummy ached and pulled and knotted and dragged. I was sweaty. I was smelly. Under my arms. On my tummy. Under the lumps and bumps that were growing on me. It was sticky. I felt ill. I felt really really ill. I couldn’t tell her. I couldn’t tell Miss Waters. She would phone my dad at work. She would phone him to come and get me. Then. Then he would shout at me. Then. Then he would send me to my room. Then. Then he would come in. Then. Then he would shout me into the corner. Then. Then he would scream in my face. Then. Then he would slap me over the head. Around the ears. Over my cheeks. Until the red s
tings turned into hand prints. Until they decorated my face. Until I curled to the floor. I didn’t want Miss Waters to call my father.

  I put up my hand. Please may I go to the toilet Miss Waters? I went to the toilet. Hardly able to walk. Dragging. Dragging in my tummy and down my legs. I lifted my grey skirt. Tucked it under my chin. Pulled down my grey white knickers.

  Blood.

  Red.

  Brown.

  Red.

  Blood.

  I was dying. I was bleeding to death. I was dying on the inside. It was coming out. Drip drop dripping out. Eddie was coming out. Eddie had killed my insides and now they were coming out. I was dying. I was bleeding to death.

  I didn’t scream. I wanted to. But I couldn’t. I hurt too much.

  I wanted to curl into a ball. Pain pain go away. Pain pain go away. I didn’t know what to do. I dared not move. If I moved then my insides would fall out. They’d fall into the toilet. I needed my heart. I needed my lungs. I needed them. I dared not move. I couldn’t move. I tried to stop the tears. Big girls don’t cry. Do you hear me? Big girls don’t cry. But. But they trickled down my cheek. The blood trickled out of me too. My insides were coming out. I wanted to be back in class. At my desk. Listening to beginnings, to middles, to ends. Not here. Not dying in the tiny cubicle, with the tiny white toilet, with the tracing paper toilet tissue and the dirty concrete floor. I was going to be sucked down into the toilet. First my insides. My organs. Then my bones. Then my skin. My clothes would remain. My blood-stained knickers would be the only clue. Lying on the dirty floor. They would wonder where I had gone. They would wonder for the rest of the day. Till the bell didn’t ring.

  I was the bell monitor. I pressed the doorbell button to end the school day. I spent my school day wishing that I would forget. That I would forget to ring the bell and we could stay in school. Forever. The other children wouldn’t be happy. They would shout and scream. They had things to do. They had fish fingers and chips waiting for them. I had to ring the bell. I never forgot. I spent the whole day worried that I would forget.

  I had thirteen minutes. My digital watch told me. I had thirteen minutes. Then I would have to press the doorbell button. Then everyone could hop, skip and jump home. I had to ring the bell. But.

  But I couldn’t move. I was dying. I was falling into the red water.

  I heard her.

  Jude?

  Silence.

  Jude. Are you in there?

  Silence.

  I saw her sparkling eyes, peering over the top of the cubicle. She must have climbed onto the toilet. She looked into my eyes. She looked into my tears. Her eyes told me not to worry. Her eyes told me that I didn’t have to say any words. She looked to the floor. She saw my knickers. Blood. Red. Brown. Fresh.

  It’s ok Jude. It’s ok. You’ve got your first period. You’re a woman now. I’ll be back in one minute.

  She went away. She came back in three minutes and twenty-seven seconds. My watch told me. It was ok though. She came back. I unlocked the cubicle door. She had a pair of lost property knickers, a plastic bag and a pad. A mattress for a mouse. Huge. It had two hoops on it. One at the top, one at the bottom. She pinned it to the knickers. It’ll do till you get home. I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t know what to do.

  She talked me out of the toilet. She put my blood red knickers into a plastic bag and she walked me to Mrs Stouter’s office. Sit there Jude. She pointed to the naughty chair. I didn’t understand. Then. She went in and closed the office door. Hush hush tones. Then. She came out. Smiling. I didn’t have to ring the bell. Someone else would. I didn’t have to worry about anything. They had spoken to my father. He wasn’t coming in. Miss Waters would walk me home. She would walk me to the shops. She would buy me some more pads. She would tell me all about what was happening to me.

  And she did. She did everything that she promised. She told me about the blood. And my new boobs. And the sweat. And about sanitary pads. I wanted to tell her about Eddie. I wanted to tell her all my secrets. I wanted to skip and to jump and to laugh out loud. I wanted to hold her hand. I wanted. But I didn’t. I couldn’t find the words. I couldn’t find the beginning. I couldn’t find all the things that used to be inside. They had fallen out of me. Down the toilet. Flushed away. Gone away.

  Rita saw us coming. She was sitting in the front room. She liked to watch the neighbours. She came to the door. Glaring. What the fuck have you done now? Miss Waters didn’t smile at Rita. Her eyes didn’t sparkle at Rita. She handed her a bag. A bag with my sanitary pads in them. Then she turned and walked away. Not a word. Not a goodbye. I wanted a goodbye. I watched her go. She didn’t turn back. I looked at Rita. Rita had opened the bag. She cack cack cackled. She looked at me. She smiled. Not a nice smile. So that’s why yee fucking stink.

  1984

  Rita moved into my mother’s house. It made sense. No need to catch the Number 28 bus from Wallsend to Marsden. Letters plopped through the box with her name on them. Rita Gustavson. Her clothes, her chocolate and then, on March 19 1984 a photograph of a dead King Charles Spaniel appeared in my mother’s house. Loulou had been run over. A reet tragedy. Now she was buried in a Pet Cemetery in Jesmond and her photograph enshrined in a gilt frame.

  Then Rita got fat. She was huge. She ate all the time. Her plates of food were heaped. Potatoes with everything. Mashed. Chipped. Sliced. Gobble guzzle gobble. Scoff scoff. She was eating for two. I didn’t understand. She devoured food. I watched her. I felt sick as I inspected her. Shovelled food not quite making it into her mouth. Lingering crumbs clung to her bleached toothbrushy moustache. Sticky droplets trickled down her chin. Guzzle scoff scoff. She talked with her mouth full. She laughed showing her mouthful. Rita lay around my mother’s house. My father patted her solid fat belly. How’s me bairn? I didn’t understand. She waddled. She huffed and she puffed. She was an orange monster. Nasty nasty beast.

  My father thought it best that they married. I thought it best that she went back to her own stinking house and left me alone. I hated her. I hated her cheap perfume that wafted into my bedroom. Invaded my air. A bottle of copied scent, bought for 50p off a stall on Wallsend market. Hardly tell the difference. Cat pee and dead flowers mixed together. Hardly tell the difference. I hated her squeaks and groans. I hated that she lived in my mother’s house. That she slept in my mother’s bed. That she hung her fat woman’s clothes in my mother’s wardrobe. She got fatter and fatter and fatter. I dreamed of rolling her down the stairs and rolling her out of the front door. Away. Be gone. Away. Roly poly woman. Round and round and round.

  My mother had not returned for me.

  jude, i have gone in search of adam.

  i love you baby.

  I was beginning to think that she never would. When the time was right, then I would have to search for my mother. Her bag of secrets. Her bag of her. Still buried. Untouched. Waiting. Waiting for her return. I didn’t know how long I should wait. How long before I gave up. Before I threw away the black bin bag. Back out for the bin men. Like my father had wanted.

  Rita and my father called me into the kitchen. They had three reet special things to tell me. They were getting married in seven days. Rumble. And. They had a special bridesmaid dress for me. And. Rita was going to have a baby any day now and my father thought it best they wed. Flicker. I thought it best that she left my mother’s house and went and had her stinking baby in her own house. I felt sick. I felt panic. Everything was going to change again. Bang.

  Those butterflies exploded into a fluttering frenzy inside my stomach. Fright. They needed to escape. I didn’t open my mouth. I feared they would flurry out of my throat. They would attack Rita. I would be in trouble. I kept my mouth shut. Tight. Tight. Tight.

  Six days later. At night. Rita and my father were at The Traveller’s Rest. The night before Rita’s big day.

  I took down the hammer from my father’s tool rack. It was very old. A thick dull metal head, with a wooden handle covered in scratches and dents
. It spoke of experience. My experience. My pain. It was heavy and cold.

  The pain released the butterflies.

  Tap

  Tap

  Tap.

  Flutter flutter flutter.

  I sat at the bottom of the stairs. I clutched my red swollen wrist. It was after eleven. I should have been in bed. I heard my father. He was coming along Disraeli Avenue. My father was singing. I’m getting married in the morning. He wanted everyone to know. I had been sitting still for hours. Alone in the darkness. I didn’t dare to let go of my wrist. It would snap off to the ground. I thought that it would snap off and drop to the ground.

  Rita wibble wobbled in. Her purple stilettos strained and groaned under her elephant weight. She stared into my eyes and then slowly moved her gaze down to look at my clutched wrist. She screamed. A piercing witch’s cry. She screeched. Yee fuckin bitch. Yee whore’s brat, wantin to ruin me special day. She would not let me ruin her day. Me special day. She wanted me out of her house. I would have to suffer. You’re a fuckin dog. Hoy the brat ootside and let kip in the cald. She kicked me. Over and over. Pain stabbed into me. Again and again and again. Stab stab stab. Hard kicks with the point of her purple plastic stilettos. Mad. Fierce. Vicious. Evil. She tried to kick my face. I curled over into a protective ball arched on the blood red carpet. She kicked my right shoulder. Stabbing pain rushed down my right arm and peaked at my elbow. Stuck. Throbbing. My father had stopped singing. He was silent. He watched her till she stopped. Then I felt her slump to the floor with a screeching shrill.