In Search of Adam Page 19

  Jude?

  Silence.

  What now Jude?

  - I want to discharge myself.

  I had broken my silence.

  I wanted to go back to my mother’s house. Back to work. Back to my money. They couldn’t stop me. I wasn’t sectioned. They couldn’t section me. They wouldn’t. They were happy to let me go.

  Happy to have one less patient. Happy. No visit to the mortuary. A success story for Ward 23.

  I agreed to have counselling. I agreed to go on the six-month waiting list and attend the block of six sessions. I agreed. That would make me better. Counselling was the solution. The only solution. I told them that I hadn’t wanted to die. I was attention seeking. I wouldn’t do it again. I lied.

  I escaped the hell hole.

  Ward 23. One hundred and nineteen days.

  Weight on entry.

  Eight stone four.

  Weight on exit.

  Seven stone two.

  Time: 3:26pm.

  Exhibit number six—my hospital wrist band.

  -I’m coming out.

  I spoke into the receiver. Silence. Silence.

  -Dad?

  Ah heard ye. He spoke in his usual dull monotone.

  - I need to talk about Adam.

  Silence.

  Are ye gettin a taxi home?

  He broke the silence. Home. Home. Home. I had no home. I have no home. Home is what other people have. The Johnsons (Number 19). Mrs Hodgson and Paul (formerly Number 2). My father, Rita and Crystal (Number 9). I didn’t have a home. My roots flip flapped in the breeze. I travelled in a taxi to my mother’s house. Forcing Rita and my father out of their holiday glow.

  I got in the taxi. A pilgrimage to my mother’s house. The diary entries flip flopped. Refreshed memories. Eddie was spinning in there too. My mother stood awfully still. And Adam. His tiny body. His murder. The images filled my head. They climbed the inside of my mind. My mother killed Adam. My mother killed my brother. My life would have been so very different. Adam made my mother kill herself. Adam made my mother drink. Adam made my mother leave me. He let Eddie enter me. Adam had helped Eddie.

  Adam.

  Adam.

  Adam.

  It was all about Adam. I needed to find a way to stop the whirling inside of my head.

  The taxi pulled into Disraeli Avenue. Sweat dripped down my back. Panic. Panic. Panic. Disraeli Avenue was different now. I saw the houses, the people and the number plates with the eyes of an adult. With the eyes of someone who could see and could understand.

  The semi-detached houses were small. Very small. They were too close to each other. Resembled terraces. Dirty. Old. Decaying and out of fashion. Graffiti decorated the street sign. A local tagger had made his mark. In green spray paint.

  The estate had gone downhill. It had aged.

  Aunty Maggie (Number 30) had died. Four years ago. She’d had cancer for years. Refused treatment. No one had known. I didn’t go to her funeral. I didn’t want to see Eddie. I didn’t mourn her death. She left me fifty pounds in her will. I spent it on Crystal. Bought her a brown Care Bear with a red heart on its tummy. Bought her an atlas and the complete works of Roald Dahl. I slipped them into her pink room. She noticed only the Care Bear. Big smiles. Big hugs. Aunty Maggie’s house had a young couple in it now. Kept themselves to themselves. Had a brand new silver car. They were rich. Didn’t really fit in. Rita reckoned that they wouldn’t stay in the street very long. Too far up their own arses. Think they’re better than us. They put in new windows. A month after they moved in. Double glazed. And they knocked down the dwarf wall. Put up a shiny metal fence instead. It made Aunty Maggie’s house look nicer. Different.

  Mrs Roberts (Number 21) had gone around and filled the young couple in on all that had happened over the last 20 years. Told them all about the community and how close the neighbours were. Too close. Watching each other’s every move. Waiting for a mistake. Waiting for something to gossip about.

  Rita liked to gossip. Rita had always liked to gossip. I knew secrets about every one of the neighbours. I knew too many secrets. Rita had told me that Mr Johnson (Number 19) was now a proud grandfather. Lucy. One of his pretty daughters had had a baby at 15. Nearly 16. They kept it a secret. She had been sent to live with Mrs Johnson’s sister in Wallsend. She didn’t get to complete her GCSEs, but she was doing well. Still living in Wallsend with her little girl. It was supposed to be a secret. Everyone knew. Mr Johnson’s other daughter. Karen. She was rumoured to be making erotic films. Apparently. One of the neighbours knew someone who had watched Suzie Sucks. Rita had delighted in that gem of tattle. Karen Johnson was always destined for big things. Rita quite fancied the thought of being a film star.

  Rita told me that Mrs Roberts (Number 21) had had an affair with Mr Johnson. That was old news. It had gone on for years. Apparently. They had had Timothy’s blood tested and found out that they had had a little boy together. Timothy Roberts. Mrs Johnson had never found out. Mr Roberts had never found out. But. But the whole street knew about it. Such a close community. The neighbours watched Mrs Roberts. They were worried thatshe would set her sights on another one of their husbands. Such a close community.

  Rita told me that Mrs Hodgson (Number 2) had moved onto the new estate. She had moved into a new house. Detached. Three double bedrooms. No one spoke to her anymore. Apparently. She thought herself better than them. She’d met a nice new man. No kids of his own and loads of money. Paul Hodgson was going to university. He was studying law. He had escaped. Mrs Hodgson had escaped. They had hope.

  My mother’s house was nestled in among the incest. In among the lack of morality and the judgmental glares. Rita and my father enjoyed their home and although they could afford to move on, they preferred not to. They liked the community feel. They believed in the community feel. They liked their neighbours. They thought they liked the neighbours. They were all so close. Too close. In and out of each others’ lives. Waiting for downfalls. Waiting for pain. Waiting for a chance to gossip. To yack. To yackety yack yack yack. Rita didn’t know what I did in the toilets of The Traveller’s Rest. The other neighbours will have known. But. Rita didn’t realise that Number 9 Disraeli Avenue was brimming with dirty scandal too.

  Crystal would be coming home from school. New Lymouth Primary School. I hadn’t seen her all the time that I was in hospital. Rita didn’t want her to go to the nuthouse. I longed to see my baby sister again. Pangs of excitement and guilt. She’d be home soon.

  I needed to talk to my father before Crystal came home. Crystal shouldn’t know.

  The taxi pulled in front of the house. Close to the lamppost. The one that used to flame. Pulled the wheel onto the pavement, so as not to block the whole road. Nearly hitting the dwarf wall. Everything was so small. Miniature-sized living. My father and Rita rose to the window. Strained expressions. Hands held. I climbed out of the taxi, grabbed my black bag of secrets and closed the taxi door. Rita and my father moved together, out of the front room and into the hall. The front door opened before I reached it.

  Come on in Jude dear. God you’re aal skin an bones. Rita dared to speak.

  I glared at her. She was a roly poly. She was baking a cake. A welcome home cake. She smiled at me. She had wanted to hug me. Put her fat stumpy hands onto my back and pitter pat pat me. I wouldn’t let her. I would never forget. I glowered. I hated her. I went into my mother’s front room.

  Rita coughed. Clearing her throat. I turned and glared at her. She was squidgy. Chubby. Squashy. Not in a nice way. She was wearing a black ra-ra skirt. With a pink lycra body on underneath. The type with poppers at the crotch. It held in her lumps and bumps. I tried not to laugh. Her eye shadow was bright pink. To match her outfit. It made her eyes look all puffy and infected. And she wore chunkyblack plastic beads. To finish off the look. Rita scurried off to make a cup of tea. I stood very still. Very straight. Just in front of Rita’s sofa.

  Now, Jude pet. It’s aal in the past. Best buried with yer mam, do
n’t yee think?

  I gave out a cackle.

  Now Jude pet. Divvent be fuckin daft.

  He was holding out. Didn’t want to chitter chatter. Didn’t want the past dragging up. Hauling up. Yanking up. I needed to drag and pull. I needed to open two coffins. The past was my present. I couldn’t live. The past was smothering me. Covering my thoughts. Draining my happiness. I didn’t know how to feel. No feelings. No emotion. Nothing. I didn’t know how to smile. I didn’t know how to laugh. Couldn’t let myself go. Couldn’t relax. Not for a moment. My guard. My eyes. Watching. Always watching. I didn’t know how to live. My father broke my thoughts.

  Adam died a long time ago. A wee lad who died. Ah’m sorry that yee found oot about him, but there really is nothin te be gained by dragging this up now.

  He sat down into his chair.

  -My mam left me a note.

  What d’ yee mean she left yee a note?

  He spoke with an aggressive twinge. He was scared. I knew that he was scared.

  - She left me two notes.

  I bent to the floor. Delved into my bag. My big black hospital bag. Took out my tin. It used to be my father’s. A navy blue cylinder tin. It had a gold trim and EIIR in gold lettering. I pulled off the lid. It was tight. Still tight. I placed the six exhibits onto the coffee table.

  Exhibit number one—

  my mother’s note.

  Exhibit number two—

  sticker from nice nurse.

  Exhibit number three—

  Eddie’s cigar.

  Exhibit number four—

  my collection of nits.

  Exhibit number five—

  sixteen squares of plastic.

  Exhibit number six—

  my hospital wrist band.

  My father didn’t speak. My father didn’t ask. Not one question. He looked. He absorbed. He didn’t speak. He didn’t ask the question. I shoved the crumpled note to him (Exhibit 1). His cheeks burned. Red red red. Steam rose from them.

  Where’d yee get this from?

  Demanding. Demanding. My father was always a demanding man.

  -The morning she died. I took a bin bag too. One that you decided to throw away. Put in the garage. You know, after the funeral.

  Of course Ah fuckin remember me missus’ funeral.

  Too many sssssssssssssssssssss. Too many sssssssssssssssssssss. He was angry. Really angry. I had to calm him. I had to calm him. I needed answers. I needed to stay in control. Calm calm calm.

  - Didn’t you notice her things gone?

  Silence

  -I hid the bag. I took it and hid it in my room. Buried it in my basket of teddies.

  Yee had nah reet te take hor things?

  -It was my note. It was mine. You had no right to get rid of my mam’s stuff.

  I was calm. I stared at him. No longer scared. He couldn’t hurt me anymore. There was nothing more that he could do to me. I had nothing. I was nothing. I am nothing. But. But I wasn’t weak. Not anymore. I watched him squirm. Rita stood by the doorway to my mother’s front room. A tray shaking in her hands. She was listening. She knew what was coming.

  - I know all about Adam.

  Silence.

  - My mam kept a diary.

  Silence. His eyes glued to his locked palms.

  -Why didn’t you tell me about Adam? Why didn’t you tell me about my brother?

  Ah was protecting yee.

  -Well you did a crap job. I knew there was an Adam. I heard all about him at your da’s funeral. Until then Adam was my hope. I thought that my mam had gone on a journey and that she’d bring Adam back with her. I thought that Adam would be someone special.

  Tears streamed down my face. Rita moved into the room.

  -NO.

  I shouted at the nasty nasty woman. My words forced her to stay where she was. Rooted to her spot. Quivering in the doorway. She was frightened. She wasn’t sure what I would do next.

  -This is nothing to do with you.

  Silence. My father slumped back further into his chair.

  -I needed you. I needed your love. I needed you to protect me from her.

  I pointed my index finger toward Rita. She quiver quiver quivered a little bit more. I was in control. Not inside. But they didn’t realise that.

  -You failed me and you failed my mam.

  I screamed. My words jumped around the room. Jumped and danced and bounced and leaped. Twirling round and round. My words danced.

  -Is this making you uncomfortable? Well, I’m sorry if you don’t like it, but I need to hear it. I need to hear the truth.

  I shoved my hands into my jeans’ pocket. They were shaking. I shivered. I trembled. He was not to see my weakness. Rita had not moved. She was deep-rooted to the spot. She was not defiant. She was scared. She didn’t know me. She feared what I was capable of. I had power. I had sweat. I was dripping.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Dripping

  under my hair. Down my neck.

  Down my back.

  Down my front.

  Collecting under my breasts. I needed to carry on. I needed to know. I needed to calm down before my baby sister came home from school. She must not know.

  I bent to my bag. Again. Stooped. Knees quivering. Hands sweaty. Delved into my bag. My big black hospital bag. I took Adam’s box.

  I placed it onto the coffee table. I stayed near to the table. Near to my treasures. Rita still shook holding the tray of tea. Adam’s box. On the coffee table. In my mother’s front room. My father stared at it. Memories. A tiny coffin of memories. His and my mother’s memories. He had seen the box before.

  Slowly.

  Slowly I removed the fragile lid. They were not to touch my box.

  Slowly.

  Slowly I removed each tiny object. Item by item. I placed them around the box. Framing. Edging.

  Blue booties. Hand knitted. Tiny.

  A curl. Blond. In a plastic money bag. Blue letters and numbers on the plastic.

  Hospital wrist band. Black biro. Adam Williams. 13-12-1967.

  A black and white photograph. Blue biro on the back. Adam. Aged 2 weeks old.

  A knitted hat. Blue. Satin ribbon ties. Straight. Never tied.

  A hand-sewn teddy. Brown. A button for a nose. Not cuddled.

  A letter. Read.

  A diary. Unspoken words. Read.

  A birth certificate. Mother Sarah Williams. Father Bill Williams.

  A death certificate. Adam Williams. 29-6-1968.

  A tiny coffin of secrets.

  My father’s eyes filled with tears.

  -No. Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare. I need you to be strong. I need you to be a father.

  Adam.

  My father spoke. His eyes were glazed. Sad. Really really sad. He stared at the items. His eyes fixed. Sadness. Deep. Real. True sadness. His eyes willed the items to be alive. His eyes willed them to spring into action. To become something.

  -Tell me. I need to know.

  My father coughed. To clear the lump from his throat. The lump of Adam from his throat. Then he spoke. Just like that. No need to ask twice.

  Wi didn’t have a phone an lived in a flat. Wi were on the sixth floor an the fuckin lift niwor worked.

  My father paused and nodded to Rita. I heard her scurrying with the tray. I heard her place her best china on the kitchen side. I heard her scurrying back. An obese mouse. Unable to sneak. She came in and hovered on the arm of my father’s chair. She didn’t touch him. She nodded for him to continue. I was still standing. I felt my knees weakening. I needed to sit. I needed support. I moved to the sofa. Rita’s sofa.

  Adam was born on the thirteenth Decemba, twelve days before Christmas. He was reet handsome…yer mam was only 19. Sheh’d bin an art student, a canny good one at that. Sheh wez funny, canny clever.

  He looked at Rita, she nodded for him to continue. Permission granted.

  Wi met at a party and that first nite sheh got pregnant. Wi didn’t even knaa each other, but wi
tried te build a family. Wi were excited about wor bairn and ower the nine months wi married an moved in together. Wi were happy, but it was all tee fast. Adam came alang and yer mam was overwhelmed. Sheh couldn’t cope wi it, wi the responsibility. Sheh worried that sheh was deein things wrong. It was tee cold, sheh couldn’t tyek him oot so sheh began te miss hor student friends. Sheh’d had te drop oot—yee knaa?

  -Yes she told me.

  I watched him fumbling for the right words. He was crumbling. Breaking. But he continued.

  Sheh changed. Sheh lost hor sparkle. Nothin ah could dee could cheer hor. Sheh loved Adam, but sheh couldn’t cope. Sheh just couldn’t cope. One day ah came home frem work later than usual. As ah came up the stairs ah could hear hor wailing. Ah’ll niwor forget them high-pitched cries. They whent on and on. Ah kneweven before ah turned the key an saw hor. Sheh was holding Adam tee close tee hor chest. Tee close. He wasn’t moving…Ah knew.

  My father stopped talking. He cleared his throat. His eyes were red. He was trying to maintain composure. He was trying to be brave. He was breaking. Breaking. Crumpling crumbling.

  - He was dead.

  Had been fe hours. Yer mam tald me how sheh’d left him. Adam wouldn’t stop bubbling. Sheh couldn’t cope. Sheh’d run oot hopin fera bit o peace. Sheh’d needed te clear hor mind. Adam was baad. He had a cold an it’d gone onto his chest. He was cryin in pain an sheh couldn’t comfort him. He died when sheh was ooot. Ah divent knaa how long sheh left him for. The postmortem said tha he choked on his own vomit. He died on his own…Yer mam told me that sheh had left him and ah didn’t tell the doctor. Ah said that sheh had foond him like tha. Sheh was in ne fit state te talk te anyone to tell them different. Wi had a secret. Ah protected her an in deein so ah betrayed me bairn laddie.