In Search of Adam Page 13
I locked the door.
Routine. I turned on the taps. The water covered my noise. I lifted the toilet seat. I knelt in front of the toilet pan. Ready ready. I pushed two fingers into my mouth. I tickled the root of my tongue. I tasted the mixed-up food. Sour. Bitter. I tasted the food for the first time. The lumps and strings of sweet food dangled and dribbled from my fingers. Clung to my fingers. My eyes streamed water. Not tears. Not crying. Water gushed from my eyes. I fumbled for the toilet roll. Chocolate fingerprints decorated the green toilet tissue. Mess mess mess. I wiped my face. I wiped my lumpy chin. I wiped the sick away. Then. I cleaned the mess inside the toilet bowl. Then. I flushed the toilet. Then. Brushed my teeth. Then. I washed my hands. My fingers smelled. The stench of the dirt in my tummy stuck to my fingers. I washed and I washed and I washed. Until I washed the smell away. Then. I went back into my room.I went to lie down on my bed. I went to lie down and think about my nana.
Paul Hodgson (Number 2) had a nana. He was eleven like me and he had a nana. I didn’t know how long he had had her for. All I knew was that she came on the bus. Every Saturday morning. She came at 9:27am. Paul told me that she brought him a ten-pence mix up and the Beano. I used to watch for her coming. She never saw me. I wondered when he got his nana. He was a little bit older than me, but I was sure that he’d had her for ages. I didn’t know. I lay in bed. It was dark. The lamppost was flaming. I kept my curtains open. I let the fragments of light shine into my room. I hated the dark.
I lay in bed. Curled on my side. Twisted into a question mark. Looking out into the night. I pictured my nana. She would be small and squidgy. She would wear rouge and full slips with a lace trim. She would use small tight curlers and dye her hair till it was the darkest black. She would never answer the door without her teeth in and her lips would always be painted ruby-red. My nana would wear Golden Tan tights that concertinaed at the ankles. She would have to wear stretchy peep toe sandals because of her huge bunions and they would cause her to hobble slightly as she walked. Her bunions would make her need a wooden walking stick. But it would have silver tassels hanging from the handle and it would shimmer in the light. She would invite me for Sunday lunch. Roast beef swimming in gravy. Gravy made from the meat and not out of a packet. Served with mounds of roast potatoes which were crisp on the outside and fluffy in the middle. Then she would appear with homemade cherry pie for dessert, sprinkled with extra sugar and served with evaporated milk. Then. She would appear with a huge piece of lemon meringue pie. Then. She would appear with home-baked scones, topped with strawberry jam and fluffy cream. I wouldn’t be sick.
My nana would make me cups of tea with five sugars and have tins and tins of biscuits. Custard Creams. Chocolate Bourbons. Fig Rolls. Jammie Dodgers. Ginger Snaps. Never Rich Tea. She would have a sideboard brimming with photographs. My photographs. Jude aged 6 weeks. Jude on her first birthday. Jude at the coast with a bucket and spade. Jude’s first day at school. She would count the hours. The minutes. The seconds till she saw me again. She would grant me wishes with the wave of her shimmering walking stick. She would spin and twirl and hop and dance and sing. She would tell me stories of long lost cousins, of uncles, of aunts, of my father, of my mother.
My eyes kept flopping closed.
A nana. I had a nana. It was a special gift. My tummy was gurgling. Talking to me. Suggesting. Adding to my imaginings. My nana may even be the Queen of England. That would explain why I had never met her. She was really busy doing very important things.
She loved me. Really loved me. But she was really really busy. Busy chopping off heads and sending naughty people to the Tower of London. My nana was the Queen. I fell asleep with images of my dancing nana bouncing around on the backs of my eyelids.
3:44am
June 18 1985
The phone rang. It sounded different. It shouted. It shattered the silence.
Ring a ding a ring a ding a ring a ding a ring.
My father thundered down the stairs. Thump thumpety. Thump thump thump. Not stopping to flick the light switch. I sat up in bed. Back perfectly straight. My bedroom door was open. It was always open. I listened.
Alreet?
Pause.
What d’ yee want?
Pause.
Alreet.
Pause.
I divvent knaa what yee want me te do aboot this. Yee made yer feelings quite clear ower fifteen years ago.
Pause.
What difference does it make tha she’s deed?
Pause.
Divvent yee dare mention Adam.
Pause.
I’ll come te the funeral an I’ll bring me bairns, but that’s al.
Nothin else has changed.
Pause.
Alreet.
I heard my father ding ding the receiver back onto the base. Then I couldn’t hear him move. He must have been standing still. I couldn’t hear. I wanted to get out of bed. I wanted to creep to the top of the stairs and peer down. The darkness scared me. The darkness kept me rooted to my bed sheet. My father was panicking me. He was not moving. He was not climbing the stairs.
Crystal screamed.
She screamed in protest. Stuck in her cot. Woken in the night. Alone. People were awake. She was awake. She wanted to know what was going on. She spoke for me. She screamed the questions that I could not sound. Rita screeched from my mother’s bed. Yee’ve woken the fucking bairn. Yee can deal with her. My father roared up the stairs. Sort her oot yorsell . Me fucking da’s just died.
Crystal screamed. Continuous. Without breaths. She was ten months and twenty-four days old. She wanted to be free. Rita liked her to be trapped. Controlled. Stuck in her cot.
My father’s father had just died. He had died down the telephone. I didn’t know what to do. Crystal was screaming. Rita wasn’t moving. She must have gone back to sleep. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to do. I climbed out of bed. I forced myself into the darkness. I feared the zip zip. I forced myself. I was brave. I was a brave knight. At the doorway. I scrunched my eyes closed and jumped the tiny hurdle to the box room.
Crystal’s pink room. Pink walls. Pink carpet. Pink curtains. A Noddy nightlight that terrified me. Blue hat. Red nose. Red cheeks. Brown hair that appeared like a bunch of grapes from beneath his hat. Scary blue eyes that never closed. Stretched open. Stared. Glared. His thin crooked mouth was opened slightly. A tiny hole. The dim light escaped through that tiny hole.
Crystal was standing up in her wooden cot. Gripping onto the rail. Her vest was covered in blobs of dried banana. She needed a bath. She was smelly. Sweet smelling smelly. Her nappy was squelching. Over-spilling past the studded join of the vest. It was heavy. Pulling her down to the bottom of the cot. She needed to be changed. Perfect tears cooled over her bright red cheeks. Clear snot dripped into her wide open mouth. Ssh. Ssh. Ssh. I told her not to make my father angry. I tried to make her ssh. She wouldn’t. She wanted me to pick her up. Rita would explode. Crystal had to go back to sleep. Rita would be angry. She would come in at any minute and see me in Crystal’s room. She would scream at me for waking her. She would slap me. She would kick me. I should have stayed in bed. I shouldn’t have left my room. The darkness made people grumpy. The darkness was controlling. Crystal was getting more and more upset. My father was still downstairs. Rita was still in her room.
Quick quick. Decide. Decide.
I picked up my baby sister. She gripped her arms around my neck. She gripped her legs around my waist. Tight. Her soft cheek stuck to mine. She wanted to be as close as possible. She was not letting go. Her screaming stopped. She sobbed. Softly. Calmly. She felt safe again. I went back into my room. I sat on the edge of my bed and then carefully lifted my legs. Slowly. Smoothly. I lowered my back. I lay flat to the bed. Crystal on my chest. Clinging. Sobbing. Drifting back into the sleep that our dead granddad had interrupted. Hush hush. Hush hush. She drifted away away. Hush hush.
I lay awake. I listened to her breathing. She was safe. Flat on my back
. My baby sister forming a shell. Protecting each other. I couldn’t fall asleep. I had to stay awake. I couldn’t drift off. Awake awake. I had to stay awake. I waited for daylight.
My father stayed downstairs. He did not return to bed. I could hear Rita tossing and turning and the bed groaned under her roly poly roundness. I lay holding my baby sister. Arms wrapped around her. Secure. Stiff. Not daring to sleep. For fear that she would roll to the floor. I forced myself to stay awake in case Crystal rolled and broke her head on the floor. I forced my eyes open. For fear that she may awake without me realising. That she may crawl and fall
fall
fall
down the stairs to her death. I had to stay awake. I had to protect her. My role was to protect my baby sister.
At 6:17am I shuffled myself to the edge of the bed. I gripped Crystal and lowered my feet to the floor. Slowly slowly. Hush hush. I stood. Gripping her close to me. Slowly slowly. I walked into her pink room. I lowered her into her cot. Carefully carefully. She did not stir. I knew that she would wake soon. It was fine for her to wake with the rising sun. I crept out of her room. Creep creep. Slowly slowly. I sneaked downstairs and toward the front room. My father was asleep in his armchair. Slumped to the side. One two three four five six seven eight tin cans lay on the carpet. My father snored and dribbled. Slowly slowly. I tiptoed back to my bedroom.
June 24 1985
He had the day off work. Because it was his father’s funeral. They gave him a whole day off. My father liked having days off. Full pay for sittin on me arse all day. He had been sitting. Reading his newspaper. Smoking his cigarettes. Drinking one two three tins of beer. We were going when he was fuckin ready te gan. I sat. On the bottom step. I wore my grey school skirt and a black blouse that was Rita’s. I had folded the cuffs to make it fit better. The black socks were my father’s and had holes in the toes. My toes didn’t peep through them though. The socks were very very very big. They didn’t fit. But my school shoes covered the holes and the not fitting. I had to be all in black. Not my knickers though. Best no one saw them. They were grey. Used to be white. I dared not move from the bottom step. In case I got dirty. In case my father went without me. I waited. Waited to go. Smiling. Excited. I was going to meet my nana. My twirling swirling nana.
Rita and Crystal were staying at my mother’s house. A funeral. No place for a bairn. No place for Crystal. I was old enough. I was a big girl. I was brave. I was a knight. Eleven years and seven months old. I was allowed to stay off school. A special occasion. I was excited.
The church was in Fenwick. On the main road into Newcastle. Busy busy main road. My father parked on the road. The church was in sight. He found a little gap for his yellow Mini to squeeze into. Then. My father rushed ahead. He must have known that he was late. He must have known that something was wrong. There were no people around. No black-clothed people. I huff puffed. Trying to make my legs go faster. Trying to run run run after him. He was rush rushing. His black jacket was flapping. He was flying through the wind. Along the road. Then through the gate into the church grounds. I was trying to keep up with him. Trying. Really trying.
He didn’t look back.
People were spilling out of the church. The funeral had ended. We had missed my granddad’s funeral. Late late late. I couldn’t cope with being late. My father stopped. In the middle of the path. The path that led up to the church entrance. It made an S-shape. From the gate. To the church. We were at the tip of the snake. He stopped. I stopped too.
There were lots and lots of people there. I counted thirty-seven. Then thirty-eight. A vicar came out. A crowd. The crowd had gathered around two ladies. Two sniffing ladies. Blowing their noses into paper tissues. Cigarettes balancing in their mouths. They were huddling together. Trying to block the wind. Trying to light their cigarettes. Needing to smoke. Trying to smoke. Then more tears. More blowing into tissues. More lighting of cigarettes. Then. Huff puff. Dragging and puffing. Sighing. Crying. They weren’t looking at my father. They weren’t looking at me. They were absorbed in their cigarettes. In each other. In being sad. A crowd of thirty-five sad-faced people gathered around them. The vicar had gone back into the church.
The two ladies. The two that the crowd circled. The two ladies were both round. One had curled lilac hair. Tight curlers. She was in black. All in black. Like a bowling ball. With high high heels and a very short skirt. She wore black tights that looked like the nets that you could buy on the seafront. If she dipped her legs off Lymouth pier, then she would catch crabs in them. Real crabs. The other lady had long black hair. Streaks of silver flashed as the wind blew. Up up into the air went her hair. A kite of hair. She wasn’t as old as the other round lady. But she was as fat. She had a longer skirt on. Flat shoes with silver buckles. Her cigarette stayed in her mouth. Balanced in the corner as she fumbled in her huge black shoulder bag. She pulled out a little dog. A real little dog. He was wearing a black knitted coat. She held him to her chest and hugged him. The dog didn’t yap. Didn’t yack. He must have been happy to be out of the bag. I wondered what other animals she had in there.
My father turned to me. That’s yer nana and me sister. Then. He moved. He began to walk. The older round lady saw him. My nana. She saw him. Then. Then she let out a screaming yowl. The worst noise that I have ever heard. Like ten cats fighting. High high. Screaming. It went on and on and on. She fell to her knees. Fell onto the concrete path. Her arms stretched out in front of her. Yowling a constant noise. Not words. A stretched squalling note. On and on and on. Her stumpy arms stretched out to my father. I didn’t move. I was too scared to move. The screaming, wailing round lady was terrifying. I didn’t know what she would do next. Scary scary lady. My father went to her. He knelt to the floor. He picked her up. My father was a crane. A strong strong man. The round lady dangled in the air. She laughed. I moved forward. I moved into the crowd. Through the crowd that had folded into my father and my nana.
I couldn’t get through. I couldn’t squeeze in between the black skirts. The black cardigans. The black black wall of people. No more yowling. Instead. Chitter chatter. Yackety yacking. I was invisible. All eyes on my father and his mother. My nana.
Who’s he?
- Bill, her laddie.
Didn’t know sheh had a lad.
- Aye. Hasn’t seen him for years though. Yeh see, his first missus was a murderer. Killed her bairn. I think his name was Adam. The murdering cow broke Betty’s heart.
Nah.
- Aye. Bill isn’t with her now though. Sheh’s deed and he’s got a new missus.
Whirling. Twirling. Spinning inside my head.
Adam.
Again.
Adam.
I felt a hand grabbing my coat. Pulling me through the crowd. My father brought me to her. She was supposed to be my nana. I think that he made a mistake though. She didn’t have a shimmering walking stick. Her hair wasn’t the deepest black. She didn’t smell nice. She didn’t twirl and swirl and dance and prance. She didn’t have any cake. Her lips were very thin and they came together in a point. She wore red lipstick that covered her four front teeth. She didn’t have nice eyes. Not sparkling. Not kind eyes. She didn’t hug me. She didn’t touch me. Instead. She looked at me. Up and down.
Up and down. Then she gave out a cackly gulpy giggle. Funny lookin bairn ain’t sheh? Like her fuckin mam ain’t sheh? Then. Then she turned her back to my face. I heard her asking my father about Rita. About Crystal. About when he would bring them to her house. I didn’t understand. She wasn’t my nana. It must have been a mistake.
I stood. Looking at my pretend nana’s back. She was an impostor. A fake. A fraud. Any minute. Any minute. My father would realise. He was being tricked. She wasn’t my nana. I knew. I knew my nana. My nana was a special gift. She was the Queen of England. Not her. Not the round woman who had turned her back on me. My nana loved me. Really loved me. My nana was the Queen. Probably at home. Baking. Baking jam tart. Cherry pies. Fairy cakes. She was dancing and bouncing ar
ound her royal kitchen. Twirling. Swirling. Sparkling. Round and round and round and round.
My father interrupted my pretty thoughts. Told me that he was going to drop me back in Disraeli Avenue. Then. Then I’d have to get ready for school. He was going to the wake. No bairns allowed. I didn’t understand. Within six minutes. I was back in the yellow Mini and heading towards my mother’s house. The words that I had heard. The yackety yacking in the crowd. Hasn’t seen him for years though. Yeh see his first missus was a murderer. Killed her bairn. I think his name was Adam. The murdering cow broke Betty’s heart. Whirling. Twirling. Round and round.
That was it. That was the last time that I saw my nana. That was the only time that I saw my nana.
1:10pm
I arrived at school. I didn’t go through the welcome door. I didn’t go through the door that would take me to the secretary’s office. Instead. I went to the playground.
I sat at the top of the metal climbing frame. I felt the cold bars through my grey skirt. I clung to the smooth spotless construction.
It was a
long
long
long
way
down.
I clung. I gripped. Gripped till my knuckles turned white. The curved silver bars linked together. With nuts and bolts. Joined. Linked together by the outlines of the squares. Into a hollow Rubik’s cube. It was a perfect square. Constructed onto the concrete. It was mine. Finders keepers. Sixty-two bars. Watching. Fingers stiff. Watching.