In Search of Adam Page 5

  Forty-two happy days. But. But then my plaster was cut off.

  A revolving blunt blade split my pod into two. The hairs on my arm were thick and dark. My hand smelled. Dead skin rolled and clung around my thumb. Dead pain clung in between my fingers.

  My wrist was stiff and ached. My wrist missed its plaster. My plaster cast came off and my father was happy. Rita was happy too. They were not in trouble. They had tricked the doctors. Nobody knew that I had been home alone. We had a secret. Hush hush. I had more secrets. Whirling. Swirling. Round and round. Twirling secrets round and round. I wanted to tell them my secrets. They had been nice to me. I wanted to tell them about Eddie.

  When my plaster cast came off. My magic was taken away. Stolen from me. And. Rita and my father just stopped being nice. They just stopped. They didn’t have to prevent my talking with doctors. They didn’t have to be nice anymore. No more shared secret. They said thank fuck for that. They could breathe again. They stopped buying me sweets. No more ten-pence mix ups. No more chunks of solid chocolate. I was alone again. No more hugs from my father. When I went near to him, he told me to move. I blocked his television. I was a big girl. I never cried. Big girls don’t cry. I was sent to my bedroom. They preferred me out of the way. Fuckin’ pain in the arse watching is all the time. Do you see sheh looks a’ the tray, to see wha sheh can ’ave? Fuckin’ greedy brat. Rita didn’t like me. I didn’t like her. I wasn’t allowed to watch Coronation Street. Things had changed again. My plaster cast was taken from me. I had nothing again. I didn’t understand. The hammer would understand.

  Over the next two years, the hammer was used four times. Every six months. Every six months to the precise date. Always on the 27th of the month. Always. Nobody ever asked the question. I was such an accident prone bairn.

  In the six months following Eddie’s visit, my hobbies began to slip away. No ballet. No Brownies. No friends for tea. Nothing excited me. Nothing interested me. I didn’t understand why I was different. I didn’t understand. My father stopped smiling at me. He stared. He glared. No brat o’ mine could be s’ fuckin strange. Rita told me that I was evil. Like your killer of a mam. My father had Rita. They had each other. He wanted to drink from tin cans. Every night he drank and played his records. Lionel Ritchie. Kenny Rogers. Dr Hook. He liked to make Rita squeak. He liked to make Rita moan and groan and screech and yell. He liked her. I didn’t. I chose to stop the violin. I didn’t want to play the recorder. I didn’t want to be in the end of year play. I hated music. I wanted my life to be silent. I was waiting.

  Waiting.

  Always waiting.

  On the last day of term. July 16 1981. I walked home from school. Followed the crocodile of children that moved up the slope of the Coast Road and towards the estate. Head down. Anchored at the tip of the crocodile’s tail. Mrs Andrews (Number 18) and MrsHodgson (Number 2) walked in front of me. Big squishy bottoms in flowery skirts. Blocked the path. Wibble wobble. I tried to move past them. Tried to slide in between the round squishy wall. But. Their squishiness squashed me. Bounced me back behind them. I squeaked politely. They didn’t hear me. They didn’t want to hear me. Their children, Gillian Andrews and Paul Hodgson, were seven like me. They had raced ahead. Chatting. Laughing. Tig tagging. I tried to zig-zag my way through, but the huge flowery bottoms had swallowed my pathway. Mrs Andrews was talking about Mr Johnson (Number 19). Loud chatter. Tittle-tattle. Chitter-chatter. Snail trail. Wibble wobble. They blocked the pavement. I couldn’t get past. Instead I walked near to them. Almost brushing their backs. I listened. I liked to listen.

  Apparently. Mr Johnson had been sacked from his job. I didn’t understand. Over a year ago. It must have been before my mother went away. He’d been full of booze once too often. I didn’t understand. Apparently. He’d gone to the library every day for two weeks. Apparently. He’d sat all day. Reading a newspaper or staring at the books. Never spoke a word. Apparently. He hadn’t had the balls to tell his wife that he’d been sacked and then one day Mrs Johnson bumped into Mrs Hughes the librarian in the Dewstep Butchers. Apparently. Holy hell had broken out that night. I didn’t understand.

  I liked Mr Johnson. He was a nice man. He always picked Karen and Lucy up from school. He waited at the school gate with the mums. He held his girls’ hands and he talked to them. All the way home. I watched him. Chitter chatter. He smiled a lot. Yellowed mouth with a little gap in between his front two teeth. He often came around to my mother’s house, smoked cigarettes and drank out of tin cans with my father. He laughed a lot. Sounded like a horse hiccupping.

  Hic-cc-cup-up-up-innnnnnng.

  It made me smile. It made me giggle giggle giggle. Mr Johnson was a nice man. He wore jeans and bright white sports shoes. He wore a blue, soft leather jacket which had huge pockets. Squishy. Squashy. He jingled as he walked. He called Mrs Johnson wor lass and talked to my father about Challenge Anneka’s canny backside.

  Mr Johnson had two girls. Karen was in my class at school. A reet pretty bairn. Her sister Lucy was two years younger than us. A bonny bairn and reet clever too. I didn’t play with them. I didn’t play with anyone. They liked Sindy dolls, make-up and Girl’s World. I didn’t see the point. I just didn’t see the point in piling luminous blue eye shadow onto a plastic blonde head.

  The squishy bottoms slowed at the peak of the Coast Road slope. Wibble wobble. Huff puff. Mrs Andrews talked. Yackety yack. Apparently. Mr Johnson had been given his cards and it was putting a canny strain on his marriage. I didn’t understand. Poor Mrs Johnson was working every hour to put bread on the table. I didn’t understand. Apparently. Mr Johnson drank like a fish and thought money grew on trees. I didn’t understand. Mr Johnson was funny. He had a laugh like a hiccupping horse. He made me smile. Mrs Andrews spoke her words with a nasty twang. I knew that she was being mean to Mr Johnson and I didn’t like her doing it. Mrs Andrews told Mrs Hodgson that she shouldn’t tell anyone. Hush hush. I wouldn’t tell anyone either. Whirling. Swirling. Round and round. Twirling secrets round and round.

  As we walked past Brian’s Newsagents, Mr Johnson was coming out. Lucy and Karen had ten-pence mix ups. They were exploring their little white paper bags. Mrs Hodgson said a strange hello to Mr Johnson. She giggled and touched his arm. Then she just stopped. In the middle of the pavement. I carried on walking. Too busy watching. Walked into her back. She turned and shouted at me. Watch where ye gannin. I put my head down and carried on walking. Such a rude bairn tha Jude Williams. Past the window of Brian’s Newsagents. Past the library. Through the cut. Past Gladstone Street. Into Disraeli Avenue. Number 9. I used my key.

  On Wednesday July 29 1981 Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer were getting married. Disraeli Avenue was having a street party. My father and all the other men who worked were given the day off. A national holiday. A day to celebrate.

  My father was assistant manager of Rumbelows in Newcastle. Mr Johnson’s (Number 19) brother was the manager. Pulled a fewstrings. My father didn’t have to have an interview. He said that he was the luckiest bloke in the world. And. That if he fell from a plane, he wouldn’t land on his arse. It was an easy job. He just had to turn up and help people spend money. My father liked his job.

  My father was the first person in Disraeli Avenue to have a Philips Betamax video recorder 2020. Could line up five programmes for up to 16 days in advance. He never did. That was too complicated. My father sold electrical items, but he could never work them. He liked to have the latest things. It cost a small fortune. £519.99. My father didn’t pay that. It was ex-display. He had an employee discount and it had a big scratch on the bottom. He made the big scratch on it. He was careful to make it on the bottom. Just enough damage. Mr Johnson’s brother had shown him how. Reet clever bloke. It cost my father three hundred pounds. The neighbours were amazed by it. Everyone must have thought that we were rich. That we were the richest people in Disraeli Avenue. Three hundred pounds. We were the richest people on Disraeli Avenue.

  Wednesday July 29 1981. The R
oyal Wedding. We had been learning all about it at school. We even sent a card to the Prince and Princess. Mine had a drawing of a yellow-haired princess in a Union Jack-coloured wedding dress. It wasn’t very good. I only had forty minutes to think of the idea and to draw it. It was rushed. Inside I wrote. Dear Prince Charles and Lady Diana. Love Jude Williams. I couldn’t think of anything else to write. I was rush rush rushed. My teacher sent it thirty-seven days before the wedding. But. We didn’t get a letter back. I asked my teacher every day. I wanted to know if Lady Diana liked my card. My teacher said that the princess would be too busy to write to our school. I didn’t believe her. I didn’t want to believe her.

  The Royal celebration. Red, white and blue bunting joined the opposite houses. Unified. Celebrating together. It swung in the gentle breeze. Ladders rested against houses. Front doors were open. Music blasted out of windows. The sun was shining. A day off work. A day to party. Posters of Prince Charles and Lady Diana were taped inside windows. They were free with the Daily Mail. A souvenir. I bought one from Brian’s Newsagents. Used one of the fifty-pence pieces that Aunty Maggie had given me. I didn’t stick it on my window. I kept it. Neat. Perfect. Flat. In an Oor Wullie album. 1978. In between pages 29 and 30. Like the date of the wedding. There were no page numbers though. I had to count from the beginning of the book. I placed the Oor Wullie album containing the special poster into my wardrobe. Carefully carefully.

  I watched from my mother’s front room window. I watched the sea of red, white and blue. Flapping. Waving. Noisy. The party was in full swing. It was nine o’clock in the morning. Tin cans were already lying empty. Cluttering Disraeli Avenue. I stayed in my mother’s front room. I peeped through the window every now and then. I didn’t want to go outside. I wanted to soak up every moment that the BBC was supplying. I was excited. Really excited. A princess. I was going to see a real princess.

  Every one of the neighbours joined in. It had been arranged. Mrs Hodgson (Number 2) had gone around with a list of food. Rita and my father had to bring sausages on sticks. It was all planned. The men had put up bunting. The women were fussing around the still folded tables. Waiting for someone to put them out. Needing someone to put them out. The children. Some children were playing hide and seek. Noisy. Rush rush. Run and hide. I could see Paul Hodgson (Number 2). He was crouched in my mother’s garden. It wasn’t a good hiding place. The street was noisy. Alive. Screaming. Squealing. Over the radios. Over music. Screeching. Over the blaring television screens. Everything was on full volume. Everyone switched on. Open front doors. In and out of each others’ houses. Rita had cleaned my mother’s house. It was polished and vacuumed and spick and span. She was happy to leave my mother’s front door open. In and out. In and out. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like the neighbours being in my mother’s house. They were too noisy. I needed to listen. I needed to see. I needed silence. I needed to concentrate.

  My father helped Mr Johnson (Number 19) and Mr Douglas (Number 8) set out the tables. They were wallpapering tables. Different sizes. They didn’t quite join together properly. Paper table cloths were put onto them. Red, white and blue. The tables stretched from Number 5 to Number 19 Disraeli Avenue. No chairs at the table, but there were some deckchairs. Placed along the pavement. The two entrances to the avenue were blocked off. Two chairs and a plank across. Mr Smith (Number 23) was a builder. He made the two blocks. Mrs Scott (Number 25) said that Mr Smith had done a good job. First time he ever did something on time. Bloody waste of space lazy arse. Everything was arranged. Tin cans of beer bobbed around in buckets of cold water. Scattered along the street. The food was foiled. Placed out along the centre of the table. Neatly. Aunty Maggie made rice. Mrs Roberts (Number 21), Mrs Johnson (Number 19) and Mrs Andrews (Number 18) brought plates of sandwiches. Spam, jam, ham and egg. There were other foods. They appeared in between my peeping. Cakes. Crisps. Scones. I wanted to know who brought them. I needed to know how they got there. I wanted to know. But. I was distracted. I was waiting. Watching. Waiting to see the princess.

  Sausage rolls.

  Crispy cakes.

  Jelly.

  Fairy cakes.

  Scones.

  Biscuits.

  Crisps.

  Hard-boiled eggs.

  Crackers.

  Spam sandwiches.

  Ham sandwiches.

  Jam sandwiches.

  Egg sandwiches.

  Rice.

  A reet royal spread.

  At the table, outside my mother’s house, Rita poked sausages onto cocktail sticks. She wore a commemorative apron over a short red skirt and a white shirt. Her white stilettos finished off the look. She looked quite normal from the front, but not from behind. As she bent over the table her fat dimply thighs squelched under the hem of the skirt. No tights because it was the summer. It was hot. The sun was shining. Rita was orange from her sunbed sessions. Like a wrinkled Satsuma. Mrs Lancaster (Number 7) told Rita that the tan made her legs look thinner. I didn’t understand. She had fat thighs. Big fat orange pork sausages. Juicer than the flimsy ones that she was poking onto sticks. I watched them all from my mother’s front room window. I heard everything through the open windows. But I would look only when there was a break or a boring discussion on TV.

  Mr Johnson (Number 19) wore a blue vest with his tight jeans. He wore a Union Jack bowler hat. He’d bought four extra and had given them to his chosen ones.

  Rita. Mrs Roberts (Number 21). Mrs Hodgson (Number 2).

  Mrs Hodgson was wearing a white nurse’s outfit. She wasn’t a nurse. Hadn’t worked. Mrs Hodgson was on the social. Hush hush. Her boobs were all squashed together and bursting out of the neckline of the outfit. The white dress had a big red cross on it and she told Mr Johnson that she was wearing blue knickers. You could see the blue knickers as the outfit stretched across her huge bottom. She had pulled her yellow hair into a ponytail and tied it with a Union Jack ribbon. She looked funny. She looked like a little girl. But she wasn’t a little girl. Nothing about her was little. Mr Johnson liked her dress. He told her that it was making me rise to the occasion. I didn’t understand.

  I was going to see a real Princess. I didn’t have a television in my bedroom. Karen Johnson (Number 19) did. I had to sit on the floor in my mother’s front room. I tried to block everything out. All of the noises. All of the people. I sat as close to the television as I could. I sat too close to the TV. Strain your fucking eyes.

  Then.

  Then the Royal Wedding coverage began. Angela Rippon and Michael Wood were in the studio and John Craven was in London. Live. I liked him. He did Newsround. He told me lots of things. The BBC was excited about the Royal Wedding. I was excited like them. There were reports from all over England. From castles, boats and staff. The Red Devils and the Red Arrows flew over London, leaving trails and patterns. Twirling and swirling. Painting the sky. Red, white and blue. There were crowds of people. Real people. All shown on the television screen. Thousands and thousands of people turned up in London. I saw them all on TV. I wished that I was there. I wished that I was with those people. They wanted to see the Prince and Princess too. I sat. In my mother’s front room, glued to the TV and recording it all with my father’s Philips Betamax video recorder 2020.

  9:45am

  Inside St Paul’s Cathedral. People started to arrive. Famous and beautiful people. I didn’t recognise any of them. I listened to the descriptions of their clothes. Then. A beautiful lady walked into the church. She looked familiar. She was a princess. From Denmark. She was wearing a pale blue silk gown. It trailed along behind her. I didn’t catch her name. She looked like Cinderella. She had yellow hair. I couldn’t see her shoes. I wanted to see her shoes. They might have been glass slippers. I think that she was Cinderella. She was very very pretty. She was smiling. She was happy. I was hearing name after name. I was trying so hard to catch them all. But. They were names that I had never heard before. Names that wouldn’t stick inside my brain. The television screen was brimming with princes a
nd the princesses. The church was full of them. I was so excited. My face was pushed against the television screen. Too close. Far too close.

  10.20am

  The commentators were excited. They talked quickly. Sing songy. Members of the Royal family were leaving Buckingham Palace.

  10.30am

  Then the Prince left.

  Then.

  10.45am

  The Princess left. Magical. Magical. A carriage. A Cinderella glass carriage. Elegant horses. Her white dress was so very beautiful. It ruffled and fluffled at the neck and the elbows. It fluffed and puffed. It stood alone. A princess decorated in a big fluffy dress. A beautiful dress. She looked a bit like the knitted doll that covered the toilet roll in my mother’s toilet. It had been a present from Aunty Maggie. It was white and green. It matched the bathroom. I looked at the detail on Lady Diana’s dress. I listened to the commentators. Every word.