In Search of Adam Page 9

  Mr and Mrs Johnson went abroad. To another country. Karen and Lucy Johnson went with them too. They left the country. Left England. And not on a day trip to South Shields. They went to Spain. To Estartit in Spain. Real Spain. They travelled for days and days. On a huge coach. A coach with a toilet on it.

  My father had to take them to Newcastle bus station. In the middle of the night. He dropped them off so that they could catch a coach and travel all the way around the world. It was going to take them hours and hours and days and days. Then. They were going to stay in a huge tent. One that had a cooker and a fridge in it.

  Rita didn’t want to hear about it. She said that they were big-headed bastards. I wanted to hear about it. Rita called my father a lazy arse. She said that she deserved a fucking holiday. Rita shouted and stamped her feet. I hoped that she would pack away her smelly things. I hoped that she would leave my mother’s house forever. She didn’t. I wanted Mr Johnson to talk about his holiday in Spain. I wanted to hear all about it. I thought that they might see my mother when they were away. That they might see her in Spain. Then. They would come back. And bring a letter for me. That they were bound to bump into her.

  They were gone for sixteen days.

  I counted the days till they came back.

  One

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen.

  My father picked them up. From Newcastle bus station. At six o’clock in the morning. They came in for a cup of tea. They woke me up as they came in for a cup of tea. Rita didn’t get out of bed. I did.

  Karen and Lucy Johnson had red noses. They had burnt their noses and the skin had peeled. Their backs were peeling too. The skin was coming off. They showed me. Their skin was a red-brown colour. They had bracelets made from brightly coloured threads. Their new friends had made them for them. On the campsite. They had had such fun. Swimming. Table tennis. Netball. Talent competitions. Karen Johnson hadn’t wanted to come home. She had cried all the way on the coach. She was going to live in Estartit when she was big. It was heaven.

  I wanted to go there.

  Mrs Johnson was grumpy. She didn’t want a cup of tea. She wanted her bed. She wanted to put some cream on her bites. She had been eaten alive. A foreign creature had liked the taste of her. It had come into the tent every night. It didn’t bother with the rest of them. Just her. I was scared. Scared that it had followed them home. That it thought they lived in my mother’s house. It might like the taste of me. It might eat me alive. Mrs Johnson was so brave. She was lucky to be alive. I wondered if she had teeth marks all over her body. Or maybe lumps and chunks where the creature had eaten her. I tried to see. But. But she didn’t like me looking at her. She got angry. She told me to fuck off.

  Mr Johnson didn’t like her saying things like that. He shouted at her. Mr Johnson was still holding his huge straw donkey. It was a present for Rita. It was the most beautiful thing that I had ever seen. It was half my height. Wearing a hat. With a big smile. I hoped that Rita would let me have it. Mr Johnson had a medal. He won a prize. Mr Muscles. He showed his bicep muscles when he said it. He was wearing a t-shirt and his arms were very brown. Very very brown. No peeling.

  He bought my father a bottle of whisky. For the lifts there and back. Mrs Johnson went back to her house. To Number 19 with the girls. My father and Mr Johnson opened the whisky. I was told to go and get dressed. They had man stuff to talk about. No one had mentioned my mother. I didn’t ask if they had a letter for me. Best not ask. They were all tired.

  After Mrs Johnson went back to her house. Rita got up. She went downstairs in her nightie. No knickers. No bra. I could see her saggy boobs. I could see her hairs. Through her white nightie. I could see them. My father could see them. Mr Johnson could see them. Rita liked her donkey. She liked Mr Johnson. She liked the whisky too. They were drinking and smoking. In the kitchen. At the wooden picnic table. Beside the timber panels that were nailed to two of the three walls. They smoked. And they laughed. In the simple setting. At my mother’s table. It was hardly used anymore.

  My father phoned in sick.

  I stayed in my room all day.

  Red cars = 6

  Green cars = 2

  Yellow cars = 4

  White cars = 3 (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

  1983

  September 5 1983. Miss Waters.

  Three years, five months and ten days since my mother’s death.

  Two years and seven months since my walk with Eddie.

  New uniforms. Shiny shoes. No creases. No dirt. Clothes slightly too big. Ready to be grown into. I had a new uniform too. I was getting big. Rita and my father had no choice. They had to buy me new things. I liked the feel of the fresh clothes. No wrinkles. Clean. I had a new grey skirt. Two new blue blouses. A blue and yellow stripy tie. A new cardigan. I needed new knickers. Mine were grey coloured and had a rip at the seam. A thread of grey elastic grew from the cotton. It grew and it grew and it grew. I wanted to pull it. I wanted to. I stopped myself. I stopped myself in case my knickers fell down. To the floor. In front of everyone.

  I wore knee-length socks. They wrinkled and scratched. I longed for ankle socks. Karen Johnson (Number 19) had pretty white ankle socks, trimmed with lace and a tiny satin bow. They were dazzling. They were perfect for Karen Johnson. A reet pretty bairn. I liked my new clothes, but I prayed for a new bag. I wanted a black one that would go on my back and I could hang keyrings from the zip. Karen Johnson had one with E.T. on it. I wanted that one. It was a lot of money. It cost her thousands of pounds. Her dad had bought it for her from the market in Wallsend. Mr Johnson was rich. I wanted an E.T. bag. I wanted it more than anything in the world. I prayed for an E.T. bag. I prayed for an E.T. vinyl pencil case too. It was shiny and black. With E.T.’s head on it. Free stuff came with it. An E.T. biro. An E.T. pencil. An E.T. ruler. An E.T. rubber. And. An E.T. pencil sharpener. Everything matched. I liked it when things matched. I also longed for new sharp pencils. They didn’t have to be E.T. ones. Just ones that I could use. Sharp and new. And felt tips. A packet of felt tips. They could be cheap. Just ones that didn’t squeak. Ones that came in a plastic wallet, with a pressie stud. I prayed. And I prayed. No one heard me. No one ever heard me.

  I walked through the school gates, down the curvy path and round the sharp corner of the E-shaped building. It was quiet. No one else about. Just me in my new uniform. The big grey playground ran along the back of the E. It was a rectangle with two brick-built bike sheds at either end. They doubled up as goal sheds. For the boys who played football. And as dance rooms. For the girls who were practising their Eurovision Song Contest dance routines. I wasn’t one of those boys. I wasn’t one of those girls. I liked to sit in corners. In nooks and crannies. I liked to sit and watch. And listen.

  I saw it.

  As I turned the corner. I saw it.

  It was bang

  smack

  in the centre of the rectangle playground.

  It was bang

  smack

  wallop.

  Sigh.

  So very beautiful. A new. A brand new. A spick and span shiny new climbing frame.

  Finders keepers.

  I would become the Queen. I would climb to the top of my castle. I would claim it. Without really thinking. I just climbed. I touched every bar. I counted every touch. Sixty-two bars. Sixty-two touches. Each touch made that bar mine. Finders keepers. As I touched. I climbed. I climbed to the top. I watched all the children and all of the parents arrive. I watc
hed the late comers rush push into the school playground. I had to touch each bar before the other children did. I had to make the bars mine. Quick quick. I did it. I did it. Just in time as the other children arrived. It didn’t matter that they climbed and that they touched my bars. It didn’t matter anymore. I had touched them first and we all knew that finders keepers ruled. I had a climbing frame. It was mine.

  I wanted to climb down. But. But I couldn’t. It had seemed a good idea. But. But I couldn’t go down. Down was too far. I decided that I would stay at the top for ever. It was too slippy slidey to go down. I decided to grip. I decided to stay the Queen of my perfectly square kingdom. Watching. Fingers stiff. Watching.

  Always waiting. I sat at the top of the metal climbing frame. Other children scrambled about. Playing tig tag. Off ground. On ground. They were laughing. They were loving the smooth metal bars of the climbing frame.

  I felt the cold bars through my grey skirt. I clung to the smooth spotless construction. It was new. It was high. I could practically touch the clouds. I would be able to if I let go. I couldn’t let go. I would fall. I didn’t want to fall. It was a long long way down. I clung. I gripped. I could see the tops of heads. I could see shoes. I could see hair partings. I could see the roof of the E-shaped building. If I jumped. Like an Olympic long jumper. If I jumped and then kind of flew through the air for quite a bit, perhaps doing four somersaults on the way. Then. Then I would land onto my flat feet on the E-shaped roof of my primary school. Then I would find out if I could fly. I didn’t think that I could, but I had never tried it before. I didn’t want to. I might fall. There was a chance that I would fall. And it was a long long way down. So I gripped till my knuckles turned white. Like clouds. My knuckles were clouds. Clouds decorating the cold metal bar. The curved silver bars linked together. With nuts and bolts. Joined. Linking together the outlines of the squares. Into a hollow Rubik’s cube. It was so pretty. It was a perfect square. A silver present for us to enjoy. Constructed onto the concrete. I was the first to touch it. It was mine. Finders keepers. I stayed at the top and watched. I didn’t move. I watched.

  The head teacher, Mrs Stouter, came into the playground. Shegripped the bell. Held her breath. 10

  9

  8

  7

  6

  5

  4

  3

  2

  1.

  Blast off.

  Ding ding ding ding ding ding.

  Run. Run. Run. Time for school. The rushing and pushing of parents and children. All barging through the yellow double doors. Packed lunch boxes. Bags. Thick coats. Shoving and ramming. Rush rush rushing. Turning right into the cloakroom. Grabbing a coat peg. Bagsying a peg. Parent and child together. Barging in together. They would be handing over their child into a new class and a new school year. A new term. Beginning. I didn’t want to go in. Not yet. I didn’t have a mother or a parent to rush me in. I didn’t have anyone to hand me over.

  The noise went. Suddenly. Instantly. It was silent again. The noise was inside the E-shaped building. Filling the rooms and the corridors and the heads of everyone inside my school. I was alone. Again.

  Alone in the silence. Normally. I liked to be with the quiet. I liked no noise, so that I could hear my thinking. Usually. I needed to hear the words that were bouncing inside of my head. Not that day. I wanted the noise to come back. I wanted someone to show me how to get down from the climbing frame. Alone. Quiet. Frightened. Trying not to think about the long long way down. Gripping. A solid flag sticking up. The Queen is in residence. Spoiling the perfect square. Stiff. Scared. Waiting to fall.

  She saw me.

  I saw her too. She was walking towards me. Smiling. A nice smile.

  Jude? I was hoping you’d be here today. I’m Miss Waters. Can I come and join you?

  She knew my name. Miss Waters. My new teacher. She knew my name before I had to find the words to tell her. I liked her already. Then. She climbed to the top of the hollow cube. She climbed like a boy. She wasn’t scared. She swung her legs, her trouser-wearing legs in and out of the squares. She touched my bars. I liked that she touched my bars. Miss Waters. A smiling Miss Waters. In black trousers with a delicate white stripe. She clambered and swung and hauled and hooped. Until she reached me. She sat next to me. Her legs flat across the top of the square. She held on. But. But her knuckles were not white. She told me that she liked to climb. She liked to look down. She told me that she had always been small. A tiny child that no one had noticed. She told me that she was fed up with looking up all the time. She liked my climbing frame. She said that it was mine before I even had to tell her. She understood. She told me that she liked to watch people too. But. But that we really must hurry. That we really must climb down. That lessons had to begin and that she had all these ideas and thoughts that were about to burst out of her. She said that we really must hurry. Before she forgot them all. But that the lesson really couldn’t begin without me. She needed me to begin her lesson. I was special. It was time to leave my kingdom.

  And I did.

  And we did. I didn’t say a word. Not a peep or a squeak. I didn’t say that my shoes were slip slip slidey or that my fingers were glued to the circular bar. I didn’t tell her. I just did as she did. I swung and I hauled and I hooped. I followed her across the grey concrete playground and up the two steps that led into the doorway of the yellow double doors. Miss Waters waited as I found a peg. Quick quick. And together we walked to the classroom. In silence. No need for words.

  Parents and children were crowded into the classroom. Squashed. Chatting. Angry. They didn’t like waiting. She’s a strange bairn that Jude. Miss Waters smiled. She spoke to all the parents. Looked them straight in the eyes. Her eyes had lines going all the wayaround. Like spectacles dug into her skin. The lines crinkled when she smiled. She smiled all the time. She met all of the other parents. Not my parents. Not my mother. Not my father. The parents smiled too. Her smile. Her twinkle. Spread. A rash of grins. All the parents caught it. They couldn’t do anything about it. She gave them a smile and stuck it onto their faces. I watched. I waited. Then they went. Waves and kisses to their boys and to their girls. The new year began.

  She was little. Tiny. She liked to sit on her desk. Legs dangling over the edge. She had no fat bits and looked a bit like a gingerbread man. A perfectly shaped gingerbread man. Her hair was ruffled and tuffled all over her head. It was short in length. But it tumbled to the bottom of her neck. A brown colour. Full of kinks. Full of life. Her hair moved with her. It was soft. Floppy. With sparkles of grey flashing through every now and then. She’d sit at the front and talk to us. Her arms flew around. Her palms stretched out. Like frying pans. Making us smile. Catching our laughter. Flipping stories up to the ceiling. And then catching them in her large palms. Tossing stories. Up and up and up. She made me laugh.

  Sometimes she’d stop talking. She would push her fingers into her floppy hair and ruffle. Ruffle ruffle tuffle ruffle. Then she’d take out her fingers. After she had ruffled a thought. Then. Then her hair would stand to attention. Kindled hair. Sparked into action by her magic fingers. Then she would carry on talking and her arms would fly and her palms would stretch outwards and upwards. After some lessons. Afterlessons full of ideas. Her hair would have grown. Flamed to the ceiling. Waving. I watched her hair grow. I watched her fingers. Ruffle tuffle ruffle. I watched as her thoughts and her fingers sparked. As the grey sparkles flashed. She had magic fingers. She was alive. She made me alive.

  She talked about books. She loved books. Traditions. Stories. Tossing, flipping and flapping stories. Myths. Knights. Fairytales. Heroes. Princesses. Gods. She loved talking about a man called Atlas. I didn’t know him. He didn’t live in Disraeli Avenue. She said that she felt his strain. I didn’t understand.

  She told us that we should be turning off the television. She said that the television was robbing our creativity. I didn’t understand. She said that we should read. We should read everything and anyth
ing. I didn’t watch television. I sat for hours. I just sat doing nothing before I knew Miss Waters. She talked about books with her arms flying everywhere and her hair getting higher and higher. Excitement. Love. Her arms flip flapped about and her eyes sparkled. I wanted to read. She made me want to read. I told her that I had read the first chapter of Danny Champion of the World twenty-seven times. I had read all of Matilda and The Twits. Thirteen times each. I told Miss Waters. She said that I was very clever. I told her about the New Lymouth Library. I told her that it was a rectangle. Like a shoe box. And that inside the library there were eighty-seven Mills and Boon novels and three Roald Dahl books. I told her that there were signs everywhere. ‘Absolute silence at all times.’ Andthat the grumpy librarian liked to read her Introducing Machine Knitting magazine. Miss Waters laughed. Miss Waters smiled. A big wide smile. A smile that stretched right up to her twinkling eyes. Miss Waters said that Roald Dahl and C.S. Lewis were her all time favourite writers. I didn’t know who C.S. Lewis was. I told her that I didn’t know who C.S. Lewis was. Then she went to her own special bookcase. She pulled out a slim paperback. Slowly. The spine was creased and the front right corner was ripped. Gently. She pushed it to my chest. You must read this Jude. I clutched the book. I absorbed her words. It was a book by C.S. Lewis. There were more. It was a series. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. She gave me number 2, because it was her favourite. She wanted to share it with me.