Disappearing Home by Deborah Morgan Page B

it, shows me how to beat them with a wooden spoon. She buttershalf a loaf of bread and cuts each slice in half, arranging them on top of one another in the dish. She pours over the eggs and sprinkles two handfuls of sultanas across the top, puts it all in the oven to bake.
    She asks me about the comic and I tell her about the Four Marys and their adventures.
    â€˜Would you say it was easy to learn how to read?’ she asks.
    â€˜Dead easy. Why?’
    â€˜Nothing,’ she says.
    â€˜Tell me.’
    â€˜You’ll laugh.’
    â€˜I won’t laugh.’
    â€˜Promise?’
    â€˜Promise.’
    â€˜I’ve decided to learn. I’ve got a teacher coming this afternoon. Lily got her from the community centre.’
    â€˜Good for you, Nan.’
    â€˜You don’t think it’s stupid?’
    â€˜No. I think it’s great.’
    The smell from her kitchen makes me feel hungry. Nan brings in the piping hot pudding on two plates, and puts them on the table. She smiles. ‘Dig in. Tell me what you think.’
    I don’t need to say a word. In a few minutes, the plate is scraped clean. After the dishes are washed, Nan has her visitor. The teacher is a lady. She sits up at the table, a black case by her side. She tells Nan her name is Mrs Womack. ‘This is my granddaughter, Robyn,’ Nan says.
    Mrs Womack nods at me, pushes her cat glasses up high so her eyebrows disappear.
    I walk over to the table and see a pile of Janet and John books. Mrs Womack tells Nan to sit next to her and opens a book at thefirst page. She shows Nan how to sound out the words. ‘C-a-t, cat. Point to the word and say it after me: c-a-t, cat.’
    Nan looks over to where I’m sitting, sends me away with her eyes. I pick up my
Bunty
and go to her room. After what seems like ages, I hear raised voices then the front door slams. Nan comes into her bedroom.
    â€˜She’ll never get in here again. I won’t be called stupid in my own home. All I could see was
c,
a half-sucked Polo mint,
a,
a head with hair flicked out at the neck, and
t,
an upside-down walking stick. I’m too old for all this.’
    â€˜Do you want me to teach you, Nan?’
    â€˜No thanks, love. I’ve been put off the idea altogether. From now on, I’ll listen to you read stories.’
    Nan goes into her kitchen to make a cup of tea. I can’t see her face, but I can hear her banging doors and rattling drawers. ‘I never liked teacher-types,’ she says. ‘Sticking their noses in where they don’t belong. They get angry too easy, wanting you to get it right first time.’ She’s back in the living room.
    â€˜Can’t you give her another chance, Nan? Or ask for somebody else?’
    â€˜You only get one chance to insult me, then that’s your lot. Saying I was making mistakes. The only mistake I made was letting her in. And the stuff she brought me, some skinny cow called Janet. I can’t see Janet and John having a barney over what time he got in from the pub, or what she threw at him as he came through the door. She couldn’t throw a dirty look without her eyeballs rolling out. If that’s what they’re getting kids to read in school, you can keep it. When I was a kid, education took place in your own back yard. Knowing how to wash, cook, clean, have children and die.’
    Back in the kitchen, she bangs stuff around. Finally she comes into the living room carrying her tea, and sits down. ‘If I had mytime over again, I’d do what Molly Tobin did. If you lived your life ten times over, you’d never find a kinder woman than Molly Tobin. She had sense enough to start a new life, across the water in the Isle of Man.’
    She points her stick at me. ‘That’s what you’ll do if you’ve got any sense. There’s nothing here for a young girl. As long as you keep away from men, you’ll have choices. Don’t make the mistake