by Shea, Alan
‘Roll on Christmas.’
‘Don’t you be so cheeky, my girl.’
I get up. I keep the things Sister Bernadette has given me on the windowsill near my bed. There are quite a few there now. I’m proud of them really, although I pretend I’m not. Maybe I’ll be able to read a comic under the bed-clothes later by the light of the luminous Virgin Mary. Then again, maybe not. I go to put the statue with the rest of my prizes. Can’t see them. That’s strange.
‘Mum. My things have gone from the windowsill.’
She looks up. There’s something in her voice.
‘Oh, they’re over on the chest of drawers.’
I go over to the drawers, knowing there’s something wrong.
My treasures are all messed up, a wreck of paper and plastic. The holy picture’s ripped. A rosary broken; beads scattered. Some things are missing. I don’t say anything because I know what’s happened.
‘Your dad must have knocked ’em on the floor by accident.’
Mum calls him my dad but he isn’t really. He’s my stepdad. I think of him as Bert, not Dad. That’s his name, Albert Makin. Bert’s what most people call him. He doesn’t like me writing or reading or drawing or, come to think of it, doing just about anything – except clearing up; that seems to be all right. He’s always complaining that I’m cluttering up the place with all my ‘junk’ from school.
‘Why can’t he just leave my things alone?’
I can feel Mum looking at me, though she’s pretending not to. ‘Oh, you know what he’s like.’
I do, but that’s an excuse, not an answer.
I clear up the beads and torn paper. I feel a bit upset so I go out to the back yard. It’s quiet out here. I sit on the wall. Wait for the feelings to pass.
Out here everything still looks a mess: it’s ten years since the war, but bombs leave deep holes in the ground, and even deeper holes in people’s lives. There are empty spaces where there used to be houses, empty places where there used to be people. I look across to the bombed ruins – torn-apart buildings that used to be homes. On walls open to the sky, wallpaper flutters. The ghosts of mirrors linger in neat, clean empty squares.
From where I’m sitting I can see up to Reggie’s window. A light comes on. A shadow passes behind the curtain. I wonder what did happen by the canal? That was a real mystery.
‘You there, Sherlock?’
‘Yes, dear girl.’
I sometimes talk to Sherlock Holmes when I’ve got a mystery that needs solving.
‘I was just wondering, about the canal that day. You’re a great detective.’
‘Wouldn’t argue with that.’
‘You can solve any mystery. What d’you reckon happened?’
He lights his pipe, thinks for a long time, puffs out a cloud of smoke and says, ‘Haven’t got a clue, dear girl. Not a clue.’
‘Well, almost any mystery.’
3
Stepdad or demon?
Morning. Light squeezes thinly through the curtain. It’s freezing cold in the bedroom: my sleeping breath is iced into lacy patterns on the window. Layers of frosty me. I scratch my name into it. It’s Saturday. Funny how it’s easier to get up when you’re not going to school.
My clothes drape over the chair, cold and stiff, waiting to come back to life. I put them on, go through the old curtain that Mum put up to separate my space from theirs, then out the bedroom door.
I walk down the passage and into the front room which is also the kitchen. We call it the front room, but it’s the only room besides the bedroom, and it’s at the back not the front. Suppose we should call it that, really. But ‘the only room besides the bedroom at the back’ would sound stupid. So we don’t.
There’s an old gas stove, a sink, a table and two chairs. It always smells stale, feels cold, looks bare. I turn on the tap over the sink; it chugs like a train, then gurgles out a stream of brown water. I let it run until it gets cleaner. No one’s watching, so I only have a quick wash. A lick and a promise, Mum calls it. I roll my collar down, attack the tide mark.
On the draining board are a few dirty plates. A saucepan of leftover porridge – a bit burned. My mum’s not exactly the best cook in the world. She’s better at burning things. Her bread pudding is great, though. I could live on her bread pudding.
I sit at the table and eat straight out of the saucepan with the biggest spoon I can find. Dig out the porridge – concrete that hasn’t yet set. It tastes of smoke. I ice it with sugar.
While I eat, I notice there’s another patch of mould growing on the wall. At this rate there’ll be more mould than wall. If I squint, it looks like a ship – a tall ship, with sails of peeling plaster, floating in a sea of green fungus. There’s another patch that looks like an angel. I decide to write a poem about an angel sailing a tall ship in a sea of green fungus. I get my out my old biscuit tin, that’s where I keep my stuff, and take out a pencil and an exercise book. Now, let’s see what rhymes with angel and fungus—
The door opens. I know he’s come in. I don’t look up. Sometimes I think it’s better if I just don’t look at him. Bit like I’m pretending he’s not really there. Or maybe I’m pretending I’m not really here.
‘What you doing? Day dreaming again?’
He goes over to the sink and starts to run the cold water. He puts his head under the tap. Scoops water on to his face from cupped hands. Sucks it into his mouth, pumps it around noisily. Spits it out into the sink.
‘Always wasting your time.’
‘I’m writing a poem.’
‘You’re writing rubbish.’
‘It’s not rubbish, it’s about a . . .’
‘I don’t care what it’s about. Get those books off the table. Now!’
I don’t argue. There’s no point making him mad. He scowls, looks across at Mum, then seems to remember something.
‘And another thing, mind you keep away from that good-for-nothing upstairs. I saw you with him again the other day. He’s trouble. D’you hear me?’
He glares at me, daring me to argue.
‘Yeah. I hear you.’
But I think, ‘Yeah, I hear you. Doesn’t mean I’m going to do it though, does it?’
He looks at me sharply, almost as if he’s heard me. He’s got these eyes that sort of drill into you. They’re cold and flat but sharp as needles all at the same time. It’s like he can see inside my brain. I stare at the floor. He makes me feel uneasy sometimes, as if he knows more about me than I want him to. I can’t help wondering sometimes what my real dad would have been like, especially when Bert’s in one of his moods. I think my real dad would have been different. He would have helped me, been proud like real dads are, even when you’re not really that good at something. They’re just proud of you because you’re you. How great is that? I know it sounds mad but sometimes when I think of my real dad I get this feeling. It’s peaceful, like someone’s stroking my face with a feather.
Bert’s voice cuts into my thoughts.
‘What time did you come in?’
‘It wasn’t late.’
‘I didn’t ask you if it was late . . .’
He lays his trap.
‘. . . I said, what time?’
I fall into it.
‘’Bout six o’clock.’
‘Well, that’s too late. You can stay in tonight – clear the place up a bit.’
No matter what time I’d told him, he’d still have said the same thing.
I don’t argue. He sits watching me while I eat my breakfast. I collect some of the dirty things from the table and take them to the sink. I can feel his eyes on my back. I let the water run on to the dishes and the saucepan for a while.
‘And don’t leave your stuff all over the bedroom. Rubbish, that’s what it is. Like the rubbish in your head.’
I know I shouldn’t answer him back, but I can’t help it. I hear myself say, ‘It’s not rubbish. They’re the prizes I got for my stories.’
He gives me that look again. Although I’m
half expecting it, it always surprises me. He takes one step towards me. I pull back. Too late. His hand smacks me around my cheek. It stings like someone has just splashed boiling water on my face. I want to put my hand to the spot; but I don’t; I don’t want him to see that it hurt. I want to look at him. To let him see how I feel. Without words. Let him see it in my eyes.
‘Not so clever now, are you?’
He takes out his tobacco tin. Rolls a cigarette. Lights it. Blows blue smoke. Stares back at me.
‘You and your stupid stories. Just a load of old lies.’
‘They’re just my stories.’
He smirks. Proves his point.
‘Stories are made up; if they’re made up, they’re not true, and if they’re not true . . .’ He pauses. Stabs me with the words. ‘They’re just a load of old lies.’
He looks hard at me, daring me to say something.
I know better. Best to get out. I go back out into the passageway. To the right is the toilet. I walk past that and into the back yard. Mum’s out there singing as she hangs out the washing.
‘I’m going out, Mum.’
She looks over at the window. Lowers her voice. ‘If you’re going with Reggie, mind your dad doesn’t see you. He’s in one of his moods today.’
I could see Bert didn’t like Reggie from the start. I think he’d rather I was friends with the Spicer twins. And he doesn’t like them at all.
‘And if you do go out, don’t go over where the old people’s places used to be. They were knocking them down yesterday. Don’t want you coming home with a broken neck.’
I want to say, if I broke my neck I wouldn’t be coming home, but I don’t. ‘I’ll be all right.’
‘Never mind about that. Don’t go over there. D’you hear?’
I go back into the passage. As I do the front room door opens. Bert is standing there, waiting to see what I’m doing, making sure I don’t go up for Reggie. His cigarette curls grey smoke. He narrows his eyes. Looks through the haze. He takes a final puff, then flicks the glowing end into the air. I walk past as quickly as I can.
4
Up the stairs
I make my way down the passage, open the bedroom door and slam it hard as if I’ve just gone in there. But I don’t go in. I wait for a while in case he’s still watching. After a few minutes I take a chance. Go back down the passage to the old staircase. There’s no sign of him, so I creep quietly up the stairs to Reggie’s. We agreed we’d start collecting wood for our bonfire today. I’m looking forward to that.
It’s a damp, dark wooden staircase. Smells like it’s got hundred-year-old armpits. But to me going up the stairs is always an adventure. Sometimes it’s an equatorial rain-forest full of amazing birds and swamps and giant creepers. Sometimes it’s a space ship like that thing on the wireless, ‘Journey into Space’, and I’m the captain and we’re on our way to the stars. But today I think it can be . . . I know . . . a snow-covered mountain. Yeah, great. Deadly ravines, walls of ice. I’m a mountaineer, climbing Everest without oxygen. Is there no end to this girl’s bravery?
I make it up the first flight. The air is thinner up here. I look over the banisters. A blizzard is drifting in. What do I care? Have a gob-stopper, they’re full of energy. Scientific fact. I push on. Each step at this altitude is painful, but I have to go on. I’ll be the first girl to climb Everest, then go out to collect wood for bonfire night in the same day. Sensational.
Then I see it, lumbering down the mountain pass. It’s huge – at least ten feet high. Evil, staring eyes. Covered in fur. It eats human flesh, and it’s heading straight towards me. It’s the Abominable Snowman. It opens its mouth and lets out a blood-curdling roar—
‘Morning, Alice. Still talking to yourself, I see.’
‘Morning, Mrs Cassidy. Not all the time.’
‘Glad to hear it. How’s your mum?’
‘She got eaten by a snow leopard on the ice face.’
‘Shame. She was a good woman.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Better keep off the ice face today, then?’
‘I should, if I were you.’
‘Righty-o.’
‘Oh, and watch out for avalanches too.’
‘Mrs Thompson hanging out her washing on the landing again?’
‘It’s like a snow blizzard. Could be nasty.’
‘Does that mean I’ve got to ski round her husband’s underpants again?’
‘’Fraid so, Mrs Cassidy.’
‘Oh well. Live dangerously, that’s my motto. Must get on. I’ve got to pop down the butcher’s at base camp. Get some chops for tea.’
‘See you, Mrs Cassidy.’
‘Bye, Alice.’
I watch her go. Everest turns back into boring old wooden stairs. I take them two at a time. They creak out their age. Darkness seeps from the walls, clings like a leech.
I’m at the door. Knocking for Reggie is dangerous – Flash is a rocket! The sound of a knock launches him, and when the door opens he detonates on your legs. Reggie says he’s only guarding his territory. I say, yeah, and I’m only guarding my legs. So I climb over the banisters, keeping the wooden rails between me and Flash. I lean forward and knock.
My knock echoes back. No barking. No Flash. Perhaps there’s no one in. But then the door slowly opens, and Granddad’s head appears round the door. He’s notched and gnarled. Blue eyes like a stream with the sky reflected in it. His hands are veined like the rivers on the maps at school. His hair is snow-white. His teeth have fallen over each other in his mouth, as though in a rush to go somewhere. My mum says he’s lucky to have his own teeth. I wonder who else’s teeth he’s likely to have. He smiles when he sees me, not one of those smiles that some people slip on and off but like he means it.
‘Ah, it’s you, Alice.’
I like his voice. It’s soft. Lots of adult voices have got edges on them. Like if you don’t do what you’re told they’ll get their voices on to you: knock you out with a crafty sarcastic uppercut to the jaw, get you with a shouting kidney punch, a telling-off right jab. Granddad’s hasn’t got an edge, though. No angles. No sharp corners.
‘Reggie in, Granddad?’
‘He’s out over the debris. Said to tell you. He’s getting the cart ready to go. You’re collecting wood for the bonfire, aren’t you?’ He chuckles. ‘Never seen him so excited.’
‘Thanks, Granddad.’
I go back down the stairs, creep past our door and outside to a crisp-as-toast morning. The day is glad to be out of bed. It’s looking forward to itself.
Reggie’s sitting on his cart. Flash is over by the old air-raid shelter, digging. Reckon Norman must have been training him to look for unexploded bombs. Suppose we’ll know if he finds one.
Reggie made the cart himself from some planks and the wheels off an old pram. It’s even got a brake. He’s looking across the debris, staring as if he can see something miles away. Fingers of oil pattern his cheeks. His collar’s rucked up and a bit frayed at the edges.
The sticking plaster on his glasses is peeling off like the opening page of a book. Reggie’s got a lazy eye. This doesn’t mean that it lies around all day in a deckchair doing nothing. It just means that the muscles in it are weak. He has to have sticking plaster over his good eye to make his lazy eye work harder.
I call out: ‘Wotcha.’
‘You t-took your time. I’ve been waiting ages.’
‘Well, you could have waited a lot longer. I wasn’t going to come out at all.’
‘I knew you would.’
‘No you didn’t.’
‘I d-did.’
‘What, are you a mind reader or something?’
As he straightens up, his glasses slip down on his nose. He wrinkles it to stop them falling off completely. His eyes go to my cheek and he looks at me funny.
‘What you staring at?’
‘You’ve got a r-red mark on your face.’
Instinctively my hand goes up to it. His eyes narrow, like he knows.<
br />
‘Looks like someone’s h-hit you.’
I change the subject. ‘You don’t look so great yourself. Your hair’s all sticking up. What d’you do, comb it with the leg of a chair?’
He spits on his hand, rubs it over his blond hair. It springs back immediately.
‘Was it your stepdad who h-hit you?’
‘Who said anyone had? Anyway, you want to mind your own beeswax.’
‘He’s a bit sort of s-scary.’
I lie. ‘I’m not scared of him.’
He looks at me for a while, like he’s trying to make up his mind about something. Then his eyes change and he grins.
‘D’you l-like my jumper?’
‘Now that’s scary.’
It’s a zig-zag jumper; zig-zagging colour across his chest. Looking at it makes my eyes go zig-zag too. A rainbow of wool. Captured from the sky and knitted.
‘Looks like you’ve been struck by lightning, mate.’
He tugs at the neck.
‘Feels like it. It itches like m-mad. Norman’s m-mum knitted it for m-my birthday. I hid it in the drawer. Thought she might forget about it.’
‘Did she?’
‘No. She asked Granddad when I was going to wear it.’
He nods, points to one of the wheels of the cart.
‘P-put your finger there.’
I do. He tightens a nut.
‘That’s got it. C-come on, then. You g-get in and I’ll pull you across the road. Test it out. It’s got to take a lot of weight if we’re going to collect loads of wood. Pity you’re skinny.’
‘Slim. Girls are slim.’
He pushes his glasses back up his nose. Wrinkles it.
‘Sorry. Right. Jump in then, skinny.’
I stick my tongue out, just to show how grown up I am, and jump in. Flash looks up, realizes something’s going on, and he’s determined it’s not going to go on without him. He comes over. Gets in the way. Jumps in the cart. Starts barking like if he does it loud enough the cart will go.
Reggie gets some string out of his pocket. He’s always got bits of string. He’s a collector of bits of string. There’s a bit tied on to the front wheel that you’re supposed to steer with. Trouble is, it’s the long bit that he normally uses to keep his trousers up. So he can’t pull very fast, not with one hand holding up his trousers.
