‘If you’re sure,’ he said.
‘I am definitely sure.’ I looked at Aunty Marie and she nodded with her nervous smile.
Uncle Tommy drove slowly because he’d had half a lager and I was feeling carsick. He asked about school and would I be back again at Mass, but my head was too tired to answer. I told him I was sorry for his TV and thanked him for the lift and all he had done for me. He looked at me like I was a stranger.
Mum was in her dressing gown when she opened the front door.
I turned and waved to Uncle Tommy and he waved back and gave two toots as he drove off.
‘You OK, Mum?’ I said, as she wobbled towards the kitchen table.
She was holding a photo album.
‘Would you like a whiskey?’ I said, and she laughed, but she started gulping in breaths and her head fell on the table. ‘A cup of tea?’ I asked.
She shook her head without looking up and I put my arm around her shoulders as far as I could. She sucked back the snot and cried into her sleeves.
‘It’s OK, Mum,’ I said, hoping that she’d stop.
‘Come here.’ She pulled me into her. She buried her face into my belly and her tears streamed out. ‘I want to scream, Bernice,’ she said. Her voice vibrated through my pyjamas, to my skin. ‘I feel trapped.’
‘Trapped?’
‘I want to go home. I miss my mum. I know she’s gone from this world but I want to go home anyway. I can’t face the factory or the houses of those stupid snobs. I can’t face the way they look at me. As if I should be blamed. As if we have a bomb-making factory here – when I wouldn’t hurt a fly, Bernice, you know that.’
‘Yes, Mum.’
‘Jesus. I wouldn’t hurt a fly. I can’t help who I am and where I’m from. Should I lose my accent and change my name, Birdy? Do you think I should?’
‘No, Mum. Of course not.’
‘I could.’
‘You can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re you.’
Chapter 15
Every day, Mrs Walsh read the register so happily I thought her life must be perfect. I pictured her at home making cakes and doing sewing and singing cheerful songs. She’d sing to her cat, I imagined, and a small frisky dog, each day when she got home from work. She’d have bookshelves in every room, stuffed full of encyclopedias and atlases and dictionaries and cooking books and storybooks. Mrs Walsh had the calm face of someone who could read whenever she wanted.
Maybe she didn’t know about the bomb. She didn’t have to know. Maybe she hadn’t had the news on, but had listened to Chris de Burgh records and danced around her house with her animals or on her own. She definitely wouldn’t know that my dad was gone.
When she read Martin’s name, there was no answer because he wasn’t there. There were whispers about him being expelled and being sent to borstal or the Isle of Wight, but there were always those rumours. I knew he’d be down the brook, skimming stones and trying to make fires.
‘Come back for more?’ Mrs Walsh called out. ‘Bernice?’
‘Yes, miss?’
‘Come back for more?’
‘Oh, yes, miss,’ I said, and she carried on.
After she’d given us a talk about the sins of war and the hungry children in Africa, we all stood up and quietly left the room. She stood at the door to check from our faces that her message about greed and power had been properly understood. I think she must have been disappointed.
‘Where are your things, Bernice?’ She pulled me aside.
‘I lost my school bag, miss.’
‘You lost your school bag?’
‘Yes, with all my things in it.’
‘You have no pens and books?’
‘No, miss. I think I left them at a shop.’
‘No spare ones at home?’
‘She’s a pikey, miss,’ someone said.
‘Take this.’ Mrs Walsh gave me her pen. ‘And get new exercise books as you go along.’
‘Thank you, miss.’
‘Bring some sort of bag tomorrow. One of Mum’s shopping bags perhaps,’ she said.
I nodded, even though there was no way that I was doing that. I couldn’t wait to get to Londis and have my bag and my things and my letters back.
The mood at school was a strange, still quiet. There were so many army children that, when bad things happened, when people got blown up or when ships got sunk, everybody felt a silent sort of fright. Nobody talked about it, but everybody thought about it. It didn’t matter about anything else; everyone wanted their dad to get home. My dad was never in the army, but he was a welder and he used to work until his hands were burnt raw so we could have the things that we needed. But I wasn’t sure if I wanted him home. I wanted him home if he was like he used to be, full of stories and adventures and fun. Not so sleepy. Not so furious with the world. Not so disappointed in me.
I was thinking about my dad and where he could be, when I saw Martin. He was wandering across the playground as we all trooped out into the warm outside air. Nobody questioned him and he didn’t look like he cared. He had a chunky winter scarf around his neck and a look of heavy thinking. I watched him. He didn’t seem sure where he was.
‘Martin,’ I called without thought. My arms stiffened. He looked up and took a few seconds to see where his name was coming from.
‘All right, Birdy,’ he said with a small smile, putting his hand up to his eyes to block out the sun.
‘All right.’ I walked towards him. He didn’t expect me to.
‘You all right?’ he mumbled and looked down and kicked a ring pull across the dirt.
I waited for him to look up at me. When he did, his face looked sore. His eyes looked puffed up. I couldn’t tell him that I still had bruises all over my body. That my legs and ribs still ached, and that my whole head hurt.
‘I’m OK, thanks. Better,’ I said.
‘Good.’ He looked down again, both hands in his pockets.
‘Aren’t you boiling with that big scarf on?’ I said.
He shook his head.
‘You’re sweating buckets.’ I didn’t know what else to say. In hospital I had imagined that moment when I would speak to Martin again. But, unlike my thoughts, I didn’t pin him against a wall, land a punch in his stomach or knee him in the balls. ‘Why don’t you take it off?’
‘No,’ he said and shook his head. ‘I want it on.’
‘OK.’ I took a breath.
He seemed flat, like a toy on its last slurry moments when its battery has died.
‘You all right, Martin?’ I said, because the silence was terrible and he looked, to me, as if he would crumple on to the ground.
‘Did you see it on TV?’ he said, looking up at me.
‘See what?’
‘The horses. Did you see the dead horses? Did you see all the blood?’
‘Oh God, yeah, I did. It was awful, weren’t it.’
‘Did you see it on the papers? You like newspapers, don’t you? Did you see the horses all on the ground on the front of the papers?’
‘No, I haven’t seen that.’
I expected it then: the old Martin. I waited for him to call my mum a terrorist and say we were scum and sing ‘God Bless the Queen’ and ‘No Surrender’ or something else his dad had taught him.
‘Totally bad.’ He shook his head.
I didn’t want to discuss dead animals with him, so I moved.
He grabbed my arm. ‘And they covered the horses with blankets.’
‘I know.’ I shook his hand off but stood still.
He looked baffled. ‘Was that to keep them warm?’
‘Not sure. They were dead, weren’t they?’
‘My dad says you have to be a cold-blooded bastard to do that to an animal.’ His eyes looked sharper as he thought about what he was saying.
‘Right enough.’
I waited for his rage to start. But he stayed distant. No anger brewing. No fists or shouting.
�
�He cried.’
‘Your dad cried? Mine nearly did as well,’ I said.
‘Really? About the bomb yesterday?’ Martin asked, and it didn’t feel right talking about my dad or animals, but it was true and so I nodded. ‘Are you making that up?’ he said.
‘No. He hates bombs as well. He was in a bomb once, so they send him loopy.’
‘He was in a bomb?’ Martin’s face lit up. ‘Didn’t kill him though?’
‘He got blinded almost, and a woman’s arm got blown off.’
‘No way.’ Martin went deep into thought. ‘So he don’t support the bombers then?’
‘Of course not, I told you that before,’ I said and shook my head. I started walking to the Maths block, keeping my eyes open for Kat up ahead.
‘What about your mum?’ Martin pulled me back.
‘Totally not. It gets her really upset. She says it breaks her heart.’
‘But . . .’ he started speaking while he was thinking something through.
‘What?’ I tried again to move.
‘How?’ His eyes widened, confused and surprised. He couldn’t finish his question off. He walked with me, dragging his holdall along the ground.
Part of me still wanted to get him in a headlock, but I’d stopped wanting to hurt him. I agreed with him. It was all stupid and confusing and I’d told Mum I was doing no more fighting.
‘Where’s your bag?’ Martin asked, looking at my hands.
‘Lost it. Mrs Walsh gave me this.’ I held up the biro with its chewed-up end.
‘Embarrassing,’ he said.
‘I know.’ I walked faster. ‘See you later. Mr Izzard will kill me – I’ve lost my Maths book as well.’
‘Birdy,’ someone yelled.
I looked around.
Simon Burgess ran towards me. ‘Mrs Cope’s got it.’ He grabbed me with an excited face. ‘Your bag.’
‘Say that again?’
‘Mrs Cope’s got your bag.’ He grinned.
‘Mrs Cope?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah.’ He got back his breath. ‘She told me to tell you. Go and get it at break.’
‘How?’
‘In her room, you div.’
‘Will you come with me?’ I said without thinking.
‘No,’ he said as if I’d asked him for a kiss. He slapped me on the back and carried on running.
‘I will,’ Martin said as I walked away.
‘No, thanks, Martin. I’ll be OK.’
At the end of double Maths my class spilt out into the playground and I walked towards Mrs Cope’s room. I left them all chattery and full of energy as I took slow, heavy steps towards the English block. The corridor was shaded and silent, apart from the squeak of my shoes on the rubber floor.
My mind said, Run and leave your bag. Let her keep it. Let her have my schoolbooks and pens. It’s easier to get a new bag and start again. But I walked on. Then I remembered my letters and what was in them, and as my heart started pumping blood, my skin turned from dry to soaking wet. I stopped and thought it through. I had to give my bag up, I decided in my head. I couldn’t face the shame and her knowing face. I turned to go back. But then I remembered Murphy’s name tag.
I tested the door to the English block and stood there, neither inside nor out. If I go back after school, I thought, Mrs Cope might be gone. I could go in when the cleaners are doing their stuff, get my bag – no one would know.
Three tall boys came up behind me.
‘You going in or what?’ one grunted.
I went in ahead of them. The English block was modern, with carpet tiles and white breeze-block walls that hadn’t yet had graffiti scrawled on them. Mrs Cope’s room was the one on the corner. Her door was open. I took small steps, keeping close to the side. I peered around the door to see if anyone was there – and she was.
She was sat at her desk doing writing. She looked different with glasses on. In my head I turned and sprinted and found Kat and we both came back and got Mrs Cope arrested. But in real life my legs didn’t budge. She looked up. I should have gone. I told myself to go. My head said, Go now, keep walking, then run.
‘Come in,’ she said.
My feet were stuck. ‘I’ve come for my bag.’
‘I know. Come in.’ She stood up and took her glasses off. ‘Come in.’
I took one step forward.
‘Come on, come in.’
I took two steps, then two more.
She walked around me and closed the door. The click of it rebounded off the thin, shaky walls.
‘Go on, in you go.’ She guided me forward. As she perched herself up on a desk, her skirt rose above her knees. ‘Come and sit down,’ she said, tapping the space next to her. ‘I want to chat.’
I stood rigid.
‘Come on, now.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I want. I just. I want my bag.’ I clenched my fists around the pen and exercise books in my hands. I looked beyond her face to the back of the classroom, the tall walls with small windows at the top that touch the ceiling.
‘Come and sit down,’ she said in a sterner voice.
‘No, miss,’ I said.
She got down from the desk, folded her arms and stood in front of me. I tightened my muscles to stop my body shaking. I wanted to step back, but my legs wouldn’t take me. She grabbed my arm.
‘Please don’t,’ I said.
‘Excuse me?’ She pulled me into her.
‘I just want my bag, miss.’
‘Sit down.’
‘I want to go home,’ I said, and when I pulled back from her, she put her hand on my neck. I pushed it off. She planted it again, with a firmer grip, sending sharp pain down through me. She pressed herself close to me. I tried to pull back.
‘Don’t fight me, Bernice,’ she said, pulling me closer to her body, squeezing my neck, forcing me to smell her musty breath.
‘Get off.’ I twisted and pushed her away.
The shock showed in her face. She stumbled back. She grabbed the desk.
‘Yes,’ Mrs Cope shouted.
I turned and saw the door open and Mr Rice stood staring. He pointed at the windows with his screwdriver.
‘Come in, come in.’ Mrs Cope waved. ‘It’s just a talking-to.’ She tried to sound jolly.
I looked around at him. He gave me a slow, thoughtful wink.
‘The Arabs would chop her hands off,’ Mrs Cope said with a fake laugh, ‘for thieving.’
Mr Rice frowned. He walked across the classroom, as far as he could get.
Mrs Cope picked up my bag from behind her desk. ‘Here.’ She pushed it into my stomach. ‘I loved reading your letters,’ she whispered and, although her voice was soft, each word made my skin prickle like she was spitting out maggots. ‘Do you know how funny they are?’
‘No, miss.’
‘They’re hilarious. They cheered me right up.’ She took hold of my chin and spoke so only I could hear her. ‘I wish I could write funny letters like that.’
‘They’re not supposed to be funny.’
‘No.’ She raised her voice. ‘Now I suggest you leave.’
I ran with no thoughts about what I was doing or where I was going. I couldn’t stay at school. I ran across roads and got screamed at by car horns. As my legs kept rushing, my arms wrestled with my open bag. I saw that all my letters were gone. I tripped over and got up. I slowed. I walked, took in gulps of breath and used my sleeve to wipe the sweat off my face.
I got to Edna’s open front door and as I walked in I saw her sitting, soaking her feet in a washing-up bowl. The room had a flowery soapy smell and the windows were steamed up and dripping.
‘Edna.’
‘Jeepers.’ Her body jerked in shock. ‘What’s wrong, my love? What’s the hurry?’ She must have been snoozing. ‘Why aren’t you at school?’ She went to stand and then remembered her feet and decided to stay put. ‘That is you, Birdy?’
‘Yes.’ I forced the word out while
nodding. My mouth was dry as dust. ‘I.’ My heart jumped about as I prepared to speak but sank when Mrs Shaw walked in. Her name was Sandra but Edna called her Sandy. She walked towards us, rubbing her hands down her skirt; I think she’d been to the toilet.
‘Hello, my pretty parsnip,’ she said. She worked in Greensleeves the Grocer’s and always called me some sort of vegetable. She turned to Edna. ‘So I’ll be off.’ She gathered together her nail file, scissors and tub of Vaseline. ‘Edna, you do know that calendar’s from 1976?’ she said, and I wanted to push her out the door. ‘I hear you know my niece,’ she said to me with a big grin. It took me a second to understand what she’d said. ‘See you, love.’ She patted Edna on her arm. She turned and patted my cheek and her damp hand made me shiver. ‘I’m so glad Kat has a friend like you. She’s been a bit skew-whiff since that business with her mother.’
Then she was gone.
‘Has she gone?’ Edna asked. ‘Birdy, is she gone?’
‘Yes, I think.’ I looked through the window and she was in the front yard, bent over the geraniums. ‘She’s smelling your flowers.’
‘Jesus, she’s a queer one.’
‘What did she mean about Kat’s mum? Is Mrs Shaw Kat’s aunty?’
‘Check for my purse, will you, Birdy?’ Edna pointed across the room to near where her handbag was. ‘And my keys.’ She lifted her feet out of the water and put them on the rug. ‘I’ll tell you something for nothing: I’d put nothing past that one.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What’s this about their Kat and yourself?’ Edna frowned. ‘You’re not friends, are you?’
I went to open my mouth.
‘Because I can tell you now, that one is a terrible beauty.’
‘Kat?’
‘A terrible beauty, she has.’
‘She’s not terrible.’
‘All of them.’
‘All of them?’
‘Gypsies.’
‘Edna. You can’t say that. Mrs Shaw does your feet. Kat is not terrible.’
‘Though at least auld Sandy didn’t mention that bloody bomb to me. Wasn’t it terrible? And horses, God help them.’
‘That was terrible.’
‘So, so stupid. Did I cry? Bloody floods. Will you check my bag there, love?’
Birdy Flynn Page 23
