Nicholas and Natasha had used it almost as often as they called me Eddie, and once I’d moved into their house they used it more and more. The notes the teachers gave me to bring home always had ‘Edward Stead’ written along the top because I’d been advised by Rob to use that name at school. ‘It’s simpler. But you’ll keep the name Taylor for quite a time, in case you change your mind.’
He meant about being adopted, although he didn’t spell that out. He’d already brought round what he called my Life Story Box. I’d never seen it before. It was a sturdy yellow cardboard carton with flaps tucked in on top.He dumped it on my bed. ‘Here you are. Everything except the stuff Natasha and Nicholas will have to keep safe for you.’
‘Stuff like my birth certificate?’ (I was determined to keep track of the replacement. Rob had seemed disappointed that there was nothing written in the space for Father’s Name. But I was simply thrilled to know my proper birthday at last. And Priya had assured me in front of everyone in my old class that I was a Leo. Loyal and strong, she said, just like a lion. And someone who liked changes.)
‘Yes, they’ll keep the stuff like that. But all the rest of your things are in this box, and you get to look after them.’
Prising up one of the carton’s flaps, I spotted my school report card from the term before, and one of the Frog and Toad books.
‘Want to go through it?’ suggested Rob. ‘Maybe show some of the things to Natasha and Nicholas?’
I shook my head and slid the box away, under my bed. Later, in private, I pulled it out and rooted through. Olly the owl, of course. (I took him out and put him on the shelf above my bed.) All of the little things that I’d been given to encourage me when I was learning to read. One or two muddy paintings from back when I was still getting the hang of rinsing my brush between colours. The photo Alan framed of me dressed as an oyster, standing between Priya and Jamie. Two cards from mymother’s nursing home, probably written by someone else but both signed ‘Mum’. The photocopies I had watched come churning out of the machine that day with Rob in Gateshead. Some grubby birthday card a policeman found in our flat. The musty book that Rob took with us when he first led me away.
And underneath, in piles of four that neatly lined the bottom of the box to make it look far fuller than it was, all of the ancient video tapes of Mr Perkins.
But all of it was stuff I’d left behind. I was a Leo now. Priya had told me that Leos liked changes and my whole life had changed. And so I shoved the yellow cardboard carton back, out of sight and mind, under the bed.
There was no one like Miss Bright at my new school. No one to lead a crying child into the cushion corner to hear about the kitten who had been run over, the brand-new model glider whose wings had been snapped off by some rough baby sister, or details of classroom spite. No one to tell us sternly, ‘It’s only bullies who call it “telling tales”. Everyone else knows that it’s letting grown-ups know why someone in the class is feeling unhappy.’
You had to stand up for yourself at Tandy Lane Junior School. Nobody picked on me, but still I found each day exhausting. I didn’t know that at the time, of course. I just came home and shoved Nicholas’s great black leather-lined earphones on my head and listened to his favourite Roxy Music tracks till he loomed over me, pointing tothe time. ‘OK, poppet. Feeling better? Ready to face the world as well as the music?’
He was an architect who worked from home. Inside his office was a massive sloping board on which he pinned his drawings and plans. I used to stand behind and marvel at how he used his elbow rather than his ruined hand to hold down rulers or papers. Appointments and site visits must have been arranged so he could meet me every weekday for a while at the school gates. I didn’t realize quite how many outside
He meant about being adopted, although he didn’t spell that out. He’d already brought round what he called my Life Story Box. I’d never seen it before. It was a sturdy yellow cardboard carton with flaps tucked in on top.He dumped it on my bed. ‘Here you are. Everything except the stuff Natasha and Nicholas will have to keep safe for you.’
‘Stuff like my birth certificate?’ (I was determined to keep track of the replacement. Rob had seemed disappointed that there was nothing written in the space for Father’s Name. But I was simply thrilled to know my proper birthday at last. And Priya had assured me in front of everyone in my old class that I was a Leo. Loyal and strong, she said, just like a lion. And someone who liked changes.)
‘Yes, they’ll keep the stuff like that. But all the rest of your things are in this box, and you get to look after them.’
Prising up one of the carton’s flaps, I spotted my school report card from the term before, and one of the Frog and Toad books.
‘Want to go through it?’ suggested Rob. ‘Maybe show some of the things to Natasha and Nicholas?’
I shook my head and slid the box away, under my bed. Later, in private, I pulled it out and rooted through. Olly the owl, of course. (I took him out and put him on the shelf above my bed.) All of the little things that I’d been given to encourage me when I was learning to read. One or two muddy paintings from back when I was still getting the hang of rinsing my brush between colours. The photo Alan framed of me dressed as an oyster, standing between Priya and Jamie. Two cards from mymother’s nursing home, probably written by someone else but both signed ‘Mum’. The photocopies I had watched come churning out of the machine that day with Rob in Gateshead. Some grubby birthday card a policeman found in our flat. The musty book that Rob took with us when he first led me away.
And underneath, in piles of four that neatly lined the bottom of the box to make it look far fuller than it was, all of the ancient video tapes of Mr Perkins.
But all of it was stuff I’d left behind. I was a Leo now. Priya had told me that Leos liked changes and my whole life had changed. And so I shoved the yellow cardboard carton back, out of sight and mind, under the bed.
There was no one like Miss Bright at my new school. No one to lead a crying child into the cushion corner to hear about the kitten who had been run over, the brand-new model glider whose wings had been snapped off by some rough baby sister, or details of classroom spite. No one to tell us sternly, ‘It’s only bullies who call it “telling tales”. Everyone else knows that it’s letting grown-ups know why someone in the class is feeling unhappy.’
You had to stand up for yourself at Tandy Lane Junior School. Nobody picked on me, but still I found each day exhausting. I didn’t know that at the time, of course. I just came home and shoved Nicholas’s great black leather-lined earphones on my head and listened to his favourite Roxy Music tracks till he loomed over me, pointing tothe time. ‘OK, poppet. Feeling better? Ready to face the world as well as the music?’
He was an architect who worked from home. Inside his office was a massive sloping board on which he pinned his drawings and plans. I used to stand behind and marvel at how he used his elbow rather than his ruined hand to hold down rulers or papers. Appointments and site visits must have been arranged so he could meet me every weekday for a while at the school gates. I didn’t realize quite how many outside
Similar Books
