Disappearing Home by Deborah Morgan Page A

pick it up. It is a comic with
Bunty
written on the front. ‘Take it,’ she says. ‘I’ve read it.’
    â€˜I’ve got a bike now.’
    â€˜Oh.’
    â€˜Coming out?’
    â€˜Not allowed.’
    â€˜Why?’
    Carol shrugs. ‘Mum says.’ A quick glance behind. ‘When she goes to work later I’ll sneak out and tell you properly.’
    When I get home Dad answers the door. He looks at my hand. ‘What’s that?’
    â€˜A comic; Carol gave me it.’
    He holds out his hand. ‘Give it.’
    I pass it to him and he flicks through the pages, tosses it to the floor.
    â€˜Rubbish. Throw it down the chute.’
    â€˜But …’
    â€˜Don’t back chat me. Chute. It’ll be fucking books next.’
    I pick it up and walk along the landing to the chute, glance behind me to make sure he’s not looking. I fold it in half and slide it down my waistband. Back in my bedroom I stuff it inside the pillow case.
    Monday, after school, Carol sneaks out. We play two balls against the wall until our fingers are numb.
A portion of chips, a portion of peas, and don’t forget the vinegar please.
I have my own spot on the wall, a favourite brick to aim for. I slap the balls again and again against it, trying to chip bits away. The smoothness of the rubber in my palm smells sweet. I think of this tall, dark, beautiful wall as mine; that before I noticed it, nobody knew it was there.
    Once you drop the ball you’re out. I get out on purpose when I see Carol looking up at the sky, afraid she might make up an excuse to go in. Carol doesn’t play on my spot. She takes a couple of steps to the left, finds a brand new place. She stays away from uneven bricks, chooses a couple of smoothed-out ones next to each other that she pounds the rubber against.
    I sit on the floor, cross-legged, and stare at the wall. You can learn a lot from walls. Dogs pee up them, rain pelts them, winds blast them, birds bomb them. In warm weather, after a game of football, boys cool their backs on them, find gaps in the cement for fingers to dig into. Pretend they have climbed this wall or thatwall; show the gaps where their shoes have been to prove they’re not lying.
    At night, under the glow of an orange street lamp, I have seen boys press girls against walls by the lips. Women are kept against walls with fists or words. When it’s all over in Tommy Whites, walls stand, the same as they always have, solid and strong. Carol drops the ball. I run and get it. I bounce it back to her.
    â€˜Thanks.’
    â€˜Why do you have to sneak out?’ I ask.
    â€˜Mum says I’m not allowed to play with you. She thinks you’re a troublemaker.’ My idea of being like everyone else folds itself away like Nan’s headscarf.
    â€˜I still want to. It’s just, she can’t know about it and you can’t knock up at mine.’
    After tea I sneak
Bunty
out under my jumper and play two balls on the wall for ages, but Carol doesn’t come out. I run all the way down to Nan’s flat. Two thousand, piddle, piddle, seven hundred, piddle, piddle, and fifty-five seconds. She’s on her way out when I get there, off to buy a few bits. I tell her I’ll wait in the flat and have a read. Nan says that’s okay. ‘I’ve got my key. Don’t answer the door to anyone, even if it’s the devil himself.’
    I take off my shoes, put my feet up on her two-seater couch and open the first page. ‘The Four Marys,’ who all sleep in a school that looks like a castle. There’s plenty of gosh, golly, splendid. In a blizzard, they make stilts out of planks of wood to rescue a group of stranded actors in an overturned bus. The story makes me laugh.
    When Nan gets back she makes something to eat. I watch her rub Stork all over a roasting dish then sprinkle it with sugar. She cracks three eggs in a white bowl with a thick blue stripe around