In Search of Adam Page 11

  Thud. Rita on the floor.

  I did not move. Gan te bed Jude.

  I clutched my wrist and struggled up each of the steps. I wanted my mother. I needed my mother to come home. I lay on my bed. Unable to sleep. I named all the countries that my mother had visited.

  Spain…France…Scotland…America…London…Libya…Malta…Tibet…Victoria…Boston…Greenland…Spain…France…Scotland…America…London…Libya…Malta…Tibet…Victoria…Boston…Greenland…Spain…France…Scotland…America…London…Libya…Malta…Tibet…Victoria…Boston…Greenland…Spain…France…Scotland…America…London…Libya…Malta…Tibet…Victoria…Boston…Greenland.

  It did not help. I wanted to be with my mother.

  The day of marriage. A stepmother. Wicked. Evil. Fat. I was 10 years, seven months and two days old. Four years and three months from my mother’s death. Three years and four months and twenty-one days since my walk with Eddie. June 26 1984.

  All the neighbours came. They stood outside the house, clapping as Rita and my father left. They said how bonny Rita looked. She didn’t. She looked all swollen and red. She looked like a big fat overripe strawberry dipped in clotty cream. Rita wouldn’t talk to me. She wouldn’t look at me. As far as she was concerned I didn’t exist. I was invisible.

  I was a bridesmaid. Didn’t expect to be. Mr. Johnson (Number 19) had two pretty little daughters. They were tiny little things. Karen was in my class at school, the same age as me, but skinny. A reet pretty bairn. Her sister Lucy was two years younger than us. A bonny bairn and reet clever too. They were bridesmaids too. Rita thought they were cute. They would look bonny on her photographs. I was to stand behind one of them. Not at the front of the photograph. Let them cover most of me. I was to do as I was told. It was her special day and I wasn’t to ruin it. Mr and Mrs Johnson had room in their car. They could fit me in. Lucy and Karen were going with my father and Rita. All together in a Kingcab taxi. Reet posh. They were going to arrive in style. It would be nice for them. Best not show favourites. It would be special for me to go with Mr and Mrs Johnson. A nice change.

  I sat through the wedding. In a Registry office in North Shields. They signed their names and smiled for photographs. Click. Click. Flash. I wondered where my mother was. I imagined that she was travelling to me. She was coming to rescue me. She would be standing outside of the door. Watching. Waiting for the ideal moment. I stared at the door, waiting for her to push in. Waiting. I lived my life waiting. She would burst open the door, rush in and light up the room with her ocean eyes. Sparkling. Dazzling. Illuminating.

  I watched the door. My wrist ached. My wrist throbbed. I didn’t allow tears to fall. Big girls don’t cry. Only whinnying bairns cry. Swollen wrist. Red. Aching. Hidden beneath a grubby bandage, found in the bathroom cabinet. Found behind the perfect thumb print smeared on the bottom right-hand corner of the mirror. I had wrapped it. I had struggled. Pounding. Throbbing. I had fastened it with a pin. Hush hush. Swirling. Round and round. Mr Johnson had asked what I had done. I said that I fell out of bed. Lies. More lies. Pain. More pain.

  The wedding finished. The new Mr and Mrs Williams. The doors opened. Happy chatting people spilled out of the room, ready to welcome the newlyweds. Confetti and rice ready to be thrown. I stayed. The neighbours left the room. Rita and my father left the room. I stayed rooted to the wooden seat. Back row. Three in from the left. Alone. Invisible. My mother wasn’t coming. I knew. The moment that I knew. I lowered my eyes. Hope gone. Nothing left. No countries to recite. Nothing. My father and Rita were married. I was the only remaining trace of my mother. I didn’t know what to do. The bottom of my throat ached. My eyes filled with tears. I could not cry. My father came back into the room and boomed for me. H’way. Get in the car. I had to move. I had to get a lift with Mrs Stevenson (Number 28). She was waiting for me. Hurry hurry. I wasn’t to spoil Rita’s special day. I wasn’t to cause any trouble.

  I was allowed to go to The Traveller’s Rest. A bit of a do. All the neighbours were excited about the buffet. I followed the trail of happy chatty locals into the building. I stood in the doorway. Alone. Slightly to one side. The guests continued to stream in. I had never been into a pub before. My father’s local. My father’s special place. It was small. Smoke filled the rectangular room. It was loud. Neighbours shouted over the Come on Eileen that boomed from the jukebox. The floor was carpeted. Yellow swirls and green flowers mingled together. The ends of the carpet were frayed. Worn away. I placed my foot onto it. It squelched. I didn’t move. I didn’t take the step. I looked ahead and tried to read the painted banner, pinned to the yellow wall with four shiny drawing pins.

  Rita and Bill. Congradulation’s.

  It had a hand-painted attempt at a horseshoe after the ’s of Congradulation’s. It looked like a moon. A blue crescent moon. Smiling. Laughing down at me. Ho ho ho. Under the banner were mounds of food. Poised on foiled platters. Covered in cling film. They were arranged onto a lacy white plastic table cloth and stretched over three rectangular tables. Paper plates formed a neat pile, signalling where the queue should begin.

  The bar was along the right-hand wall. It was narrow. Stretched. A woman was serving behind it. She had jet black hair. Perfectly straight and from the doorway she looked glamorous. Blood red shiny lipstick. Big dangly earrings. Jingle jangle. Her hair was pulled into a perfect ponytail. It flopped down her back and glistened under the light. She wore a red satin blouse. She had big boobs. Really big boobs. They were trying to climb out of her top. She was very glamorous. Like a movie star. There were five stools in front of the bar. The men were getting drinks. First drink free. A tab at the bar. Pints all round. Happy men. Laughing men. All talking. The woman behind the bar was laughing. I couldn’t hear her over the music. She flicked her head, swished her hair and opened her mouth wide. She looked very happy. She liked her job. She had a nice job.

  The women were rushing for the best seats. Push push. The nearer the food, the better the seat. Smoky glass ashtrays decorated the round wooden pub tables. Nineteen tables, each with four chairs. Seventy-six seats. I tried to count the guests. I tried to calculate if there were enough seats. The guests were moving. They wouldn’t stay still. I needed paper. I needed a pencil.

  Aunty Maggie.

  Flutter. I stopped. The neighbours came in couples. Married couples. Aunty Maggie wasn’t married. Never had been. Hush hush. Whirling. Swirling. Round and round. Twirling secrets round and round. I felt sick. The butterflies were awakened. I searched the room. Scanning. Scanning the room. Eyes flicking for danger. Eyes looking for Eddie. Brown cardigan. Greasy hair. I looked for him. Surely Aunty Maggie would have brought him as a guest. He was such a nice guest. I felt sick. I leaned against the door frame, unable to take a step. I wasn’t safe. I wanted to be in my bedroom. Sat behind my door. Back against it. Arms wrapped around my shins. Knees pulled up to my chest. Pulling into myself. I wasn’t safe. The seats were being snapped up. Push rush. Hurry hurry. The ashtrays were filling. Smoke was being puffed in every direction. I was rooted in the doorway.

  A wave of excitement swept across the room. Rita began to take the cling film off the food. A reet canny spread. Rita told everyone to stuff ya gobs. There was a rush to the pile of paper plates. Mrs Hodgson (Number 2) and Mrs Andrews (Number 18) were first. They had won. They beamed with excitement and giggled to each other as they wibble wobbled along the length of the tables. The queue was formed. I stood in the doorway. Slightly to one side. Searching. Frightened. Alone. Food everywhere. Food food food.

  Aunty Maggie came to me. She told me to come and join the queue. She was alone like me. I could sit next to her. I joined the queue. Tiny flip flaps remained, as I stood in between Aunty Maggie and Mr Scott (Number 25). The food was disappearing. Panic. People were piling mountains onto the tiny paper plates. The plates were buckling under the strain. I watched. I counted the chicken drumsticks. Only thirty-seven left. I needed to eat. I needed food.

  Sandwiches. Egg, salmon, corne
d beef. The corned beef still had an edging of white fat. Triangular cut sandwiches. Crusts chopped off to be posh. I liked crusts. Vol-au-vents. Ham or chicken in a grey sauce. The sauce looked like grey sick. E.T. sick. Not nice food. I didn’t like the look of them. I wouldn’t eat them. Aunty Maggie said that they were delicious. I didn’t believe her. Chicken drumsticks. Served with a white serviette wrapped around the bone. Twenty-eight left. I had four. Twenty-four left. Cheese and pineapple. United on a cocktail stick. Foil-covered potato hedgehog with the mounted sticks jutting out in different directions. The hedgehog had sultana eyes and half a sultana stuck to the end of a Blu Tack nose. Happy food. I liked the hedgehog. I didn’t want anyone to take the sticks. His spikes were going. The hedgehog was sad. Sausages. Out of a tin, drained of brine and placed onto a stick. Foil-covered potato head with cocktail sticks spiking out as hair. Ho ho ho. Sultana eyes. No nose. An orange slice for a mouth. A happy head. Soon to be bald. Happy to be bald. Boiled eggs. Smooth and whole. Perfectly glossy and beginning to smell. I ate one whole. Shoved it into my mouth as the queue pushed me along. Sausage rolls. Small morsels with a crisp layer of burn on top. Delicious. Limp lettuce. Grated carrot. Sliced tomato. Tasteless celery. Chocolate fingers displayed like a fan, on a paper doily. Trifle, laced with sherry. Oozing alcohol and sprinkled with hundreds-and-thousands. The colours of the sprinkles all blended together. A smudged rainbow. Chocolate gateau. Right at the back. Still defrosting.

  Neighbours laughed. Neighbours drank. Pints all round. Babycham in tall glasses. Clink clink. Presents. Cards. My father and Rita wrapped around each other. Food food food. They are so in love. Isn’t it wonderful about the bairn they’re expectin? Bill is so happy.

  I sat. I ate. I watched.

  A toast. Speech. Speech.

  My father thanked everyone for coming. My father thanked his bonny missus. The new Mrs Williams. My father thanked his witnesses. My father thanked his bridesmaids. Everyone was to enjoy themselves. Everyone was to eat. Eat. Eat. I sat at the table furthest from the bar. In the left-hand corner. In between Aunty Maggie and Mrs Ward (Number 12). I didn’t speak. I ate as much as I could. I ate till I could hardly move. I ate till I would burst. I ate till it began to stick in my throat. I went to the toilet and I was sick. It just happened. I bent over to pull up my knickers. And I was sick. I saw the chicken. I saw the egg. I saw the trifle. I tasted them all again. I tasted the bitterness. I liked the bitterness. I went back to my chair. I sat. I watched. I listened. I ate.

  I watched my father. I watched Rita. I watched the neighbours, come and go. Talking about things that I didn’t understand. I knew that my father wished that I wasn’t around anymore. He had told me enough times. I was too like my mother. Fuckin mad. My mother had gone. Off to see someone called Adam. I had no family. Nothing. My father had a new life. A new future. A baby on the way and a new wife. I had nothing. I was surviving in a world of obstacles. I was waiting.

  But I had one hope. Hidden. Waiting. One hope that I wouldn’t let go of. I still had her bag of secrets. The bag of her. My mother’s things. It was still buried. Untouched. Waiting. Waiting for the right time. And. When there was really no hope. Really really. When I gave up. When I really really gave up. Then I still had my mother’s bag of secrets.

  A few days after the wedding, the closest neighbours Mrs Symons (Number 11) and Mrs Lancaster (Number 7) became Rita’s bestest friends. They came into my mother’s house and would spend afternoons sitting in the lounge. They drank mugs of tea, dunking in chocolate bourbons and custard creams. Biscuits out of packets, placed onto a saucer and carried in on Rita’s tray. They were there when I got home from school. Rita was a solid roly poly. Nothing gooey about her. The baby about to burst out of her tummy. Her feet were swollen. She was hot. She was sweaty. She was really red all of the time. A big plump juiceless plum.

  I sat half way up the stairs. I listened. Back to the wall. Knees tight to my chest. Arms wrapped around my shins. Head resting on my knees. Listening. Mrs Symons was telling Rita and Mrs Lancaster about Mrs Hodgson (Number 2). She was filling Rita in on everything that she had missed before she moved into Disraeli Avenue.

  Apparently. Mrs Hodgson had been married once. I didn’t know that. Her son Paul was in my class at school. He was 10 like me. Apparently. When Paul was a toddler, Mr Hodgson had been called for jury service. I didn’t understand. He had been the envy of the street having a whole week paid off work. Two weeks after the end of the service and Mr Hodgson came home and told Mrs Hodgson that he was leaving her. Poor hinny was cooking his egg and chips at the time. Apparently. He’d met some lass when he should have been focusing on sending some bugger down for grievous. I didn’t understand. Mr Hodgson had finished his egg and chips, packed his bags, then taken a pint of milk from the fridge and left. Not so much as a blush or bye bye. He just buggered off.

  He had left her for some lass called Sky Thursday. Though her real name was Wendy Jackson and she was from Coastend. She was into crystals and tarot cards. A bit of a nutter. Now Mr Hodgson lived in a council flat in Hingleworth, with Sky and their three kids. He was always a randy bugger. I didn’t understand. Apparently. Mr Hodgson was a changed man. He walked round in sandals, wore hand-knitted jumpers and played the didgeridoo. Turned into a bit of a nut like his lass. Rita and Mrs Lancaster cackled and cackled and cackled. Rita said that she’d have to be careful or she was going to piss her pants.

  Apparently. Mr Hodgson didn’t bother much with his poor bairn Paul. Only a nipper when his father buggered off. Mrs Symons felt sorry for the little fella and she felt he was crying out for a bloke in his life. Mrs Hodgson was on the social and Mrs Symons said that she was better off without the didgeridoo-playing weirdo. Mrs Hodgson hadn’t married again. But. Apparently. Mrs Symons did have it from the horse’s mouth that Mrs Hodgson had had a bit of Mr Johnson. I didn’t understand. Rita and Mrs Lancaster were booming. Screeching. Cackling. Crowing. Shrieking with laughter. Their amusement bounced against the walls.

  Mrs Symons told Rita and Mrs Lancaster that they shouldn’t repeat a word of it. Had been told in confidence. A secret. Hush hush. I wouldn’t tell anyone either. I had more secrets. Whirling. Swirling. Round and round. Twirling secrets round and round. I would never tell them any of my precious secrets.

  I heard Rita saying that she needed a pee before she pissed her pants. I turned and dashed up the stairs. I ran into my room, just as Rita was waddling out of the lounge. She had heard me thunder up the stairs. She knew that I had been listening. She shouted up. Better not be noseying in on me business. She huffed and she puffed and she wibble wobbled weebled up the stairs. She didn’t come into my bedroom. She went into the bathroom. She was in there ages. Seventeen minutes. I knew, because I was waiting. A quivering sentry. I waited. I waited for her to scream at me. I waited for her to slap my ear. Fuzz buzz.

  I heard the door unlock. She wobbled out through the doorway. I sat behind my door. Back against it. Arms wrapped around my shins. Knees pulled up to my chest. Pulling into myself. She shouted to Mrs Symons. It’s time. I’ve wet meself and me belly is killin. I didn’t understand, but Mrs Symons and Mrs Lancaster did.

  Curly.

  My bundle.

  Cry and I come to you.

  Arms reaching out from your comfort,

  Eyes sparkling

  Filled with dreams.

  Sleepy bundle.

  Close your eyes

  Curl into those dreams.

  I will protect you.

  Crystal Williams was born on July 25 1984. I was nearly 11 years old. I was nearly 11 years older than Crystal. Rita stayed in hospital for a week. I didn’t get to see her baby. The neighbours came to visit. In that week I noted that someone from every one of the 31 other houses came to call. Some brought gifts and didn’t step into the hallway, some brought gifts and drank coffee at the wooden kitchen table, others sat with my father in my mother’s front room and smoked cigarettes and drank from tin beer cans. They were wetting the baby
’s head. My father liked these visitors the best.

  I longed to see the baby.

  Aunty Maggie had brought rice and two tiny pink knitted cardigans with pearly miniature buttons. The cardigans were buttoned up and ironed so that the sleeves stretched out. Waiting to be hugged. Mrs Clark (Number 14) brought a casserole and a pack of bibs and with each ding dong my father poured drinks, gathered presents and welcomed his guests. My mother’s house was full of laughter. I felt excited.

  My father described Crystal to me. She was tiny. She had a splattering of jet black hair. Her fingers were curled and her nose was squashed. She had a tiny red birthmark on the left cheek of her bottom. A Cabbage Patch Kid. I longed to see her. My tummy churned and tossed. I needed to know that she was safe.

  I wasn’t allowed to visit. Rita was tired. Rita needed her rest. I couldn’t sleep. Flipping in my stomach. Visions of a tiny plastic-looking baby doll jumped around my head. Hope. Fear. I longed to meet my sister. I had never seen a baby before.

  I came home from school. Rita was home. She was sleeping. My father was sitting in the lounge. No cigarettes. No tin cans of cold beer. My father held a tiny swaddled bundle.