Disappearing Home by Deborah Morgan Page A

pushes a small bottle of lemonade out of the way, careful not to let me see. Behind his round glasses, two slits for eyes. He doesn’t have many lines on his face but he has smoky, old man’s hair.
    I look at his pen. It got here in its own black box. It is dark blue, with a gold belt around its middle and a gold clip to grip onto a pocket. He twists off the lid, flips open his writing pad. The part of the pen you write with looks more like a dagger than a pen. He begins to write, a giant blob of blue ink appears on the page. He rips that page out, balls it up and throws it into the bin, starts again.
    â€˜So, Robyn, do you like school?’
    I do not speak.
    He fills my silence with the crisp sound of his pen gliding acrossthe page. Taking a deep breath in, he smiles. It is a small smile I have seen before. Mr Thorpe saves that smile for Gavin Rossiter when he has shown him for the fifth time how to add without using his fingers. Mr Thorpe looks to the classroom ceiling and says,
Jesus tonight, s
ends Gavin to tidy the books in the library for the rest of the morning. After dinner Mr Thorpe is nice again. He nods at the cupboard for Gavin to get out the toy cars. Tells him to pass the biscuit tin over and hands Gavin a Rich Tea. Inside the tin is where he finds the note:
Dolly’s shop will go on fire.
    Mr Wainwright shuffles his bottom all the way back into the chair and leans forward. ‘Would you say you liked school, Robyn?’
    I nod.
    He writes.
    â€˜What do you like best about it?’
    â€˜The dinners.’
    He writes.
    I think he writes
greedy cow,
and I smile.
    â€˜So, you like school dinners. What’s your favourite?’
    â€˜Everything.’
    He writes.
    I scratch my head.
    He writes.
    I think he writes
Robyn has nits,
and I smile.
    â€˜Who are your friends in school?’
    I shrug.
    He writes.
    I shiver. Somebody’s walking over your grave, Nan says.
    â€˜Is there anything you’re scared of in school or at home?’
    Burning water fills up my eyes. I blink it away, looking down. I think: I’m scared to wake up in the mornings, scared to breathetoo loud, scared to be left in with my dad on my own. But I can’t say it. I could never say it out loud, to anybody, or he’d kill me.
    When I look back up, Mr Wainwright’s face is all white, like he’s going to drop down dead. He has sweat on his forehead. On the telly, when anyone takes a funny turn, people give them a drink. I grab his black bag and search inside for the lemonade. It’s not there. Then I see the zip on the other side.
    Mr Merryville walks in the room and catches me, elbow-deep in the bag.
    â€˜Robyn Mason, what are you doing?’
    I ignore him, panicking to get the zip open.
    It’s there. I twist off the top and tilt it up to Mr Wainwright’s lips. He makes a good noise in his throat, all the red coming back into his face. Mr Merryville stands by the open door stiff as the statue of Mary.
    Mr Wainwright loosens his tie.
    â€˜What do you think you’re doing, Mason?’ Mr Merryville shouts. ‘Rummaging around in an adult’s bag?’
    â€˜Sir, I …’
    â€˜Don’t deny it. I saw you with my own eyes.’
    Mr Wainwright says, ‘It’s okay, really, she helped.’
    â€˜Get back to class. I’ll come and deal with you later.’
    For the rest of the day I can’t concentrate on my work. Every time the door handle squeaks my belly does a handstand. Just before home time Mr Merryville calls me out of class. On the way to the door I spit on my palms and rub them together thinking maybe the cane won’t hurt as much. Outside, Mr Merryville smiles at me. ‘Robyn, I didn’t understand what you were doing before. Mr Wainwright explained and he sends his thanks.’ Then he walks away. Easy as that. No telling off and no cane. I realize I’ve worried all day for nothing.
    *
    A couple of days later, when