Disappearing Home by Deborah Morgan Page B

Dad’s not home, I tell Mum about Mr Wainwright. ‘That’s not all you’ve got to worry about,’ she says. ‘The headmaster sent a letter, wants to see me. Good job I opened it and not your father.’
    Mum says I’m to stop taking things from school, otherwise they’ll be knocking on the door next and, if that happens (she whispers, nodding at Dad’s empty chair), he’ll go mad.

8
    I haven’t seen Nan for ages. It is Chris who hands me a piece of paper with her address written on it.
    17 VESCOCK STREET ( OFF SCOTLAND ROAD )
    LIVERPOOL 5
    ( OPPOSITE ST SYLVESTER’S CLUB )
    I read the address over and over again. Chris laughs, says I’ll read the words right off the page if I’m not careful.
    â€˜She wants to see you Saturday.’ February is my favourite month of the year. Saturday is my eleventh birthday.
    â€˜How do I get there?’
    â€˜You walk fifteen, twenty minutes away. Round the back of St George’s church, to the grass hills, down them, all the way to Netherfield Road, cross that, down to Great Homer Street, then on to Scotland Road.’ Chris can’t stop coughing, his face bright red. ‘Ask anyone on Scottie where St Sylvester’s Club is. You’ll find it.’
    As he walks down the steps I can hear his wheezy chest.
    I follow Chris’s directions, and once I’m on Scotland Road I show a girl a bit older than me the address. After that, Nan’s block is easy to find. I knock at the door, half thinking a stranger will answer. But it is May, my nan. Blue-eyed May, stick swinging over her arm, legs half-past five on a clock.
    â€˜Look at you, happy birthday.’ She hugs me around the waist. ‘Still as thin as a straw. Come in, I’ll show you around.’
    I love the place. The feel of smooth new walls painted clean, like mint imperials. The kitchen is double the size of the one in Tommy Whites. Brand new cupboards, cream, brown wooden handles and a baby blue worktop. Even room for a small table and two chairs in the corner.
    Her bedroom is lovely. She has a cream furry rug by her bed to step out on when she gets up. Above her bed, Jesus lies, arms open wide, on a wooden cross. Nan’s special prayer:
Goodnight all the Angels in Heaven. God keep me safe till morning.
    Without asking, I take my shoes and socks off, sit on the bed and wriggle my toes in the furriness.
    Nan laughs. ‘You look like an escaped lunatic.’
    The toilet and bath are brand new, her mangle slotted in the corner.
    I don’t like the smell. It’s a dry, gassy smell that Nan says is caused by the blow-out central heating. She points to a grid low down on the wall. I notice them in every room. ‘I’m not using it. I’d rather throw my coat on if I feel cold. Save on the bills. Save on the dust as well.’
    Just across from her front door she takes me up a narrow staircase to the first floor, two front doors opposite each other. Then we climb more steps to the second floor where Lily and her husband, Frank, live. Lily opens the door, looking too young to be a pensioner. She has long nails and short words.
    â€˜May?’
    â€˜Just the key, Lily, to show my granddaughter the back yard.’
    â€˜A minute.’ She disappears down her lobby. ‘Here we are. Pass it back through the letterbox soon as.’ With a quick smile, she closes the door.
    There’s not much to see. An empty washing line, a square of concrete with a couple of trees planted around the edges. Beyond the back fence there is a playground attached to a school. ‘We’re going to get benches out here, Lily says. So we can sit. There are better places to sit.’
    Nan locks the back door and I run upstairs to give the key back to Lily. It’s her husband Frank who opens the door with no shirt on. He takes the key from my hand. ‘Just getting a shave,’ he says, pressing his neck too close to my face.