Rita nicer. Sometimes. The magic lasted for the whole six weeks. Forty-two happy days.
Rita and my father bought me sweets. Every day. They talked to me. Asked me how I was. Sometimes I was allowed to watch television with them. Coronation Street. I had to go to bed when it finished and I didn’t understand it. But. But I tried to be interested. Annie. The Rovers. Mike. Deirdre. Ken. Emily. I liked sitting in my mother’s front room. With them. Watching Coronation Street. The theme tune started and Rita waddled in with a plastic tray overcrowded with goodies. Always. A bottle of Cola. Three glasses. Four tin cans of beer. A large packet of Cheese and Onion crisps. Salted peanuts. A big bar of Cadbury’s Whole Nut chocolate. Rita kept it in the fridge. It was solid and stiff. I would sit on the floor, Rita and my father on the sofa. Rita would give me three chunks. Thick chocolate. Her special chocolate. I sucked. I savoured. I tried to work out what was going on between Mike, Deirdre and Ken. Rita said that she loved Mike Baldwin. She wanted him to do things to her. I didn’t understand. I stared into the screen. Tried to use my magic. Tried to magic Mike into whisking Rita away to Manchester. That was far far away. Practically the other side of the world. I liked watching television with my father and Rita. I liked the tray of goodies. I liked that the tray was not removed until everything was guzz guzz guzzled.
Forty-two happy days. But. But then my plaster was cut off.
A revolving blunt blade split my pod into two. The hairs on my arm were thick and dark. My hand smelled. Dead skin rolled and clung around my thumb. Dead pain clung in between my fingers.
My wrist was stiff and ached. My wrist missed its plaster. My plaster cast came off and my father was happy. Rita was happy too. They were not in trouble. They had tricked the doctors. Nobody knew that I had been home alone. We had a secret. Hush hush. I had more secrets. Whirling. Swirling. Round and round. Twirling secrets round and round. I wanted to tell them my secrets. They had been nice to me. I wanted to tell them about Eddie.
When my plaster cast came off. My magic was taken away. Stolen from me. And. Rita and my father just stopped being nice. They just stopped. They didn’t have to prevent my talking with doctors. They didn’t have to be nice anymore. No more shared secret. They said thank fuck for that. They could breathe again. They stopped buying me sweets. No more ten-pence mix ups. No more chunks of solid chocolate. I was alone again. No more hugs from my father. When I went near to him, he told me to move. I blocked his television. I was a big girl. I never cried. Big girls don’t cry. I was sent to my bedroom. They preferred me out of the way. Fuckin’ pain in the arse watching is all the time. Do you see sheh looks a’ the tray, to see wha sheh can ’ave? Fuckin’ greedy brat. Rita didn’t like me. I didn’t like her. I wasn’t allowed to watch Coronation Street. Things had changed again. My plaster cast was taken from me. I had nothing again. I didn’t understand. The hammer would understand.
Over the next two years, the hammer was used four times. Every six months. Every six months to the precise date. Always on the 27th of the month. Always. Nobody ever asked the question. I was such an accident prone bairn.
In the six months following Eddie’s visit, my hobbies began to slip away. No ballet. No Brownies. No friends for tea. Nothing excited me. Nothing interested me. I didn’t understand why I was different. I didn’t understand. My father stopped smiling at me. He stared. He glared. No brat o’ mine could be s’ fuckin strange. Rita told me that I was evil. Like your killer of a mam. My father had Rita. They had each other. He wanted to drink from tin cans. Every night he drank and played his records. Lionel Ritchie. Kenny Rogers. Dr Hook. He liked to make Rita squeak. He liked to make Rita moan and groan and screech and yell. He liked her. I didn’t. I chose to stop the violin. I didn’t want to play the recorder. I didn’t want to be in the end of year play. I hated music. I wanted my life to be silent. I was waiting.
Waiting.
Always waiting.
On the last day of term. July 16 1981. I walked home from school. Followed the crocodile of children that moved up the slope of the Coast Road and towards the estate. Head down. Anchored at the tip of the crocodile’s tail. Mrs Andrews (Number 18) and MrsHodgson (Number 2) walked in front of me. Big squishy bottoms in flowery skirts. Blocked the path. Wibble wobble. I tried to move past them. Tried to slide in between the round squishy wall. But. Their squishiness squashed me. Bounced me back behind them. I squeaked politely. They didn’t hear me. They didn’t want to hear me. Their children, Gillian Andrews and Paul Hodgson, were seven like me. They had raced ahead. Chatting. Laughing. Tig tagging. I tried to zig-zag my way through, but the huge flowery bottoms had swallowed my pathway. Mrs Andrews was talking about Mr Johnson (Number 19). Loud chatter. Tittle-tattle. Chitter-chatter. Snail trail. Wibble wobble. They blocked the pavement. I couldn’t get past. Instead I walked near to them. Almost brushing their backs. I listened. I liked to listen.
Apparently. Mr Johnson had been sacked from his job. I didn’t understand. Over a year ago. It must have been before my mother went away. He’d been full of booze once too often. I didn’t understand. Apparently. He’d gone to the library every day for two weeks. Apparently. He’d sat all day. Reading a newspaper or staring at the books. Never spoke a word. Apparently. He hadn’t had the balls to tell his wife that he’d been sacked and then one day Mrs Johnson bumped into Mrs Hughes the librarian in the Dewstep Butchers. Apparently. Holy hell had broken out that night. I didn’t understand.
I liked Mr Johnson. He was a nice man. He always picked Karen and Lucy up from school. He waited at the school gate with the mums. He held his girls’ hands and he talked to them. All the way home. I watched him. Chitter chatter. He smiled a lot. Yellowed mouth with a little gap in between his front two teeth. He often came around to my mother’s house, smoked cigarettes and drank out of tin cans with my father. He laughed a lot. Sounded like a horse hiccupping.
Hic-cc-cup-up-up-innnnnnng.
It made me smile. It made me giggle giggle giggle. Mr Johnson was a nice man. He wore jeans and bright white sports shoes. He wore a blue, soft leather jacket which had huge pockets. Squishy. Squashy. He jingled as he walked. He called Mrs Johnson wor lass and talked to my father about Challenge Anneka’s canny backside.
Mr Johnson had two girls. Karen was in my class at school. A reet pretty bairn. Her sister Lucy was two years younger than us. A bonny bairn and reet clever too. I didn’t play with them. I didn’t play with anyone. They liked Sindy dolls, make-up and Girl’s World. I didn’t see the point. I just didn’t see the point in piling luminous blue eye shadow onto a plastic blonde head.
The squishy bottoms slowed at the peak of the Coast Road slope. Wibble wobble. Huff puff. Mrs Andrews talked. Yackety yack. Apparently. Mr Johnson had been given his cards and it was putting a canny strain on his marriage. I didn’t understand. Poor Mrs Johnson was working every hour to put bread on the table. I didn’t understand. Apparently. Mr Johnson drank like a fish and thought money grew on trees. I didn’t understand. Mr Johnson was funny. He had a laugh like a hiccupping horse. He made me smile. Mrs Andrews spoke her words with a nasty twang. I knew that she was being mean to Mr Johnson and I didn’t like her doing it. Mrs Andrews told Mrs Hodgson that she shouldn’t tell anyone. Hush hush. I wouldn’t tell anyone either. Whirling. Swirling. Round and round. Twirling secrets round and round.
As we walked past Brian’s Newsagents, Mr Johnson was coming out. Lucy and Karen had ten-pence mix ups. They were exploring their little white paper bags. Mrs Hodgson said a strange hello to Mr Johnson. She giggled and touched his arm. Then she just stopped. In the middle of the pavement. I carried on walking. Too busy watching. Walked into her back. She turned and shouted at me. Watch where ye gannin. I put my head down and carried on walking. Such a rude bairn tha Jude Williams. Past the window of Brian’s Newsagents. Past the library. Through the cut. Past Gladstone Street. Into Disraeli Avenue. Number 9. I used my key.
On Wednesday July 29 1981 Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer were getting married. Disraeli Avenue was having a street party. My father and all the other men who worked were given the day off. A national holiday. A day