In Search of Adam

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Rita came to my mother’s house before my father got home from work. She cooked his tea and ironed his shirts. She wanted to marry him. She wanted to live in my mother’s house. She always came at the same time. Number 28 bus from Wallsend to Marsden. Arrived at 4.45pm or 5.15pm depending on which one she caught. I had sixty minutes. She had a key.

I went into my father’s garage. It was attached to the house, through a wooden door from the kitchen. The stone floor was cold. I felt the cold through my white ankle socks. I looked around. The walls of the garage were my father’s. Shelves of goodies and racks of tools. Half empty cans of paint. Brushes. Turpentine. Buckets. Jars of screws. Tins of nuts and bolts. Rakes. Brooms. Hammers. Screwdrivers. Saws. Spades. Never just one of a sort. I saw a tin. A pretty tin. A navy blue cylinder. It had a gold trim and E

R in gold lettering. It was dusty. It was neglected. It was too special to be on a shelf. In my father’s cold garage. My father liked his garage. His special things were kept there.

The bricks of the garage were damp. It stank of the oil which had leaked from the bottom of my father’s yellow Mini. A pool of oil was in the centre of the stone floor. A rusting lawn mower slumped against the wall waiting to be cleaned. I was looking for something to help me. I was standing in the doorway, scanning the room for something. Something to help me.

A paintbrush. Too soft.

A spade. Too heavy.

A hammer. Just right.

I took down a hammer from my father’s tool rack. It looked very old. A thick dull metal head, with a wooden handle covered in scratches and dents. It spoke of experience. It was heavy and cold. I went back into the kitchen.

The kitchen. A rectangle that was divided into two separate areas. One where you ate. One where you cooked. When the house was empty I sat in that area where we used to eat. Special occasions. Christmas Day. Ripped-open Selection boxes. Chocolate for breakfast. A Curly Wurly poking out, waiting to be sneaked before lunch. Turkey dinner. Snapping crackers. Paper hats and funny jokes. Toon Moor night. Fish and Chips from the chippie on the seafront. Eaten straight from the newspaper parcel. Placed onto a plate. A bag of candy floss saved from the fair. Fluffy, pink and promising to be delicious. Easter Sunday. A leg of lamb, roast potatoes and lashings of mint sauce. Easter eggs lined up on the kitchen worktop. In sight and waiting.

Timber panels were nailed to two of the three walls giving a Scandinavian woodland feel while we ate. It was a simple setting. A matching stained wooden picnic table, resting against the panelled wall. A themed location. Hardly used anymore.

I sat at the table clutching the hammer. Hovering its cold head over my wrist. Plucking the courage. Finding the courage. Deep within me. Somewhere. Just a little tap at first.

Tap

tap

tap.

It felt nice. It wriggled and jiggled and tickled. I liked it. I tapped a little harder.

Tap

tap

tap.

Pain. Physical pain. Actual pain. Throbbing, pounding, thumping pain. I could breathe again.

I hit a little harder.

Hit hit hit.

Pain. Again. Again. Again. The pain released me. The pain cleaned inside my head.

My wrist was red. The white bone was shining through the stretched skin. I saw my bone. It shone. Tears gushed from my eyes. My legs were shaking. Shock. Cold feet. Pain. Again. Again.

Enough. The hammer was too heavy to continue.

My wrist was swelling. I stood. Shaking. Colour jumped from my cheeks and plummeted to my toes. I wobbled. I went back into the garage, clutching the heavy hammer. The stone floor was cold. I wiped the handle of the hammer. I don’t know why. I replaced the hammer, back on my father’s tool rack. It swayed. I went back into the house. Slowly slowly.

A plan. A simple plan.

Fourteen minutes later. Rita came. I was sitting at the bottom of the stairs. I was crying and clutching my wrist. I could cry. My red swollen wrist made it alright to cry. I told her that I had fallen down the stairs. Fallen onto my wrist. It was a simple plan. She was worried. My father would be in trouble. No one was looking after me. She told me she would buy me sweets. She told me that I was not to tell anyone that I had been left alone in the house. It’s our little secret, bairn. Whirling. Swirling. Round and round. Hush hush.

She would say that she saw me fall. I didn’t have to lie. She would help me. She phoned my father at work. He came home and he hugged me. He hadn’t hugged me before. He smelled of cigarettes and his breath puffed out stale beer. I didn’t want him to let go of me. I wanted to stay. At the bottom of the stairs. Standing on the red carpet with my father’s arms wrapped around me. He said that it would be alright. My father promised to make everything alright. Rita would look after me too.

We all went to hospital. They told my story. I had an X-ray. My scaphoid bone was cracked. A clear crack in the small boat-shaped bone in Jude’s right wrist. This type of crack is consistent with a fall downstairs. The doctor didn’t know about my father’s hammer. He didn’t know about my tap tap tapping. I would have to have a plaster cast on for up to six weeks.

A nurse was waiting for me. She had blonde spiralling ringlets, coiling to just above her shoulders. Her silver eyes twinkled and sparkled. They had been speckled with enchanted fairy dust. She wrapped the soft white cotton wool around and around and around. My wrist felt safe. Snug. Warm. Then the bandages wrapped around and around and around the cotton wool. Securing. Cuddling. Then. Water was dripped onto the bandages. Magic. A white plaster oozed between the nurse’s fingers. I watched the enchanted nurse manipulate the white lumpy mess into a perfectly smooth shell. She created a faultless capsule. It shrouded my tiny wrist. I admired how she could manipulate the gluey substance between her slender fingers. I watched as the plaster began to dry and white patches decorated her bitten finger nails. I thought she was magical. So magical. When she finished, she gave me a real smile and then offered me a shiny sticker. It was a brown teddy bear with a golden star on his round tummy. I had won a prize.

As we left the hospital Rita and my father promised to look after me. I cried through the pain. I cried out my pain. It was fine to cry.

Crying made the pain real. I rested my heavy arm within a powder-smelling sling. I liked the pain.

I could have some time off school. I could eat sweets and watch the television. A ten-pence mix up. Pink Shrimps. Gum rings. Foam teeth. Black Jack. Fruit Salad. Candy watch. Strawberry lace. Flying Saucers. All neatly placed in a crisp white paper bag. Aunty Maggie brought me a magazine. The Beano. Edition 2015, February 28 1981. Sellotaped to the front was a shiny fifty-pence piece. I liked the pain. The pain made them notice me.

I was here again. I was visible.

The pain was lovely. The cold hammer was miraculous. The smell of the damp plaster made me happy. My father tucked me in bed. I was a clever girl for not telling the doctor. Some secrets were good. Hush hush. Pain was nice. My father was proud of me. I was not alone. That night I slept and wanted to wake up.

Exhibit number two—sticker from nice nurse.

My plaster cast had magical powers. Really really magical. I was magical when I wore it. My plaster cast made my father notice me more. It even made 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 to celebrate.

My father was assistant manager of Rumbelows in Newcastle. Mr Johnson’s (Number 19) brother was the manager. Pulled a fewstrings. My father didn’t have to have an interview. He said that he was the luckiest bloke in the world. And. That if he fell from a plane, he wouldn’t land on his arse. It was an easy job. He just had to turn up and help people spend money. My father liked his job.

My father was the first person in Disraeli Avenue to have a Philips Betamax video recorder 2020. Could line up five programmes for up to 16 days in advance. He never did. That was too complicated. My father sold electrical items, but he could never work them. He liked to have the latest things. It cost a small fortune. £519.99. My father didn’t pay that. It was ex-display. He had an employee discount and it had a big scratch on the bottom. He made the big scratch on it. He was careful to make it on the bottom. Just enough damage. Mr Johnson’s brother had shown him how. Reet clever bloke. It cost my father three hundred pounds. The neighbours were amazed by it. Everyone must have thought that we were rich. That we were the richest people in Disraeli Avenue. Three hundred pounds. We were the richest people on Disraeli Avenue.

Wednesday July 29 1981. The Royal Wedding. We had been learning all about it at school. We even sent a card to the Prince and Princess. Mine had a drawing of a yellow-haired princess in a Union Jack-coloured wedding dress. It wasn’t very good. I only had forty minutes to think of the idea and to draw it. It was rushed. Inside I wrote. Dear Prince Charles and Lady Diana. Love Jude Williams. I couldn’t think of anything else to write. I was rush rush rushed. My teacher sent it thirty-seven days before the wedding. But. We didn’t get a letter back. I asked my teacher every day. I wanted to know if Lady Diana liked my card. My teacher said that the princess would be too busy to write to our school. I didn’t believe her. I didn’t want to believe her.

The Royal celebration. Red, white and blue bunting joined the opposite houses. Unified. Celebrating together. It swung in the gentle breeze. Ladders rested against houses. Front doors were open. Music blasted out of windows. The sun was shining. A day off work. A day to party. Posters of Prince Charles and Lady Diana were taped inside windows. They were free with the Daily Mail. A souvenir. I bought one from Brian’s Newsagents. Used one of the fifty-pence pieces that Aunty Maggie had given me. I didn’t stick it on my window. I kept it. Neat. Perfect. Flat. In an Oor Wullie album. 1978. In between pages 29 and 30. Like the date of the wedding. There were no page numbers though. I had to count from the beginning of the book. I placed the Oor Wullie album containing the special poster into my wardrobe. Carefully carefully.

I watched from my mother’s front room window. I watched the sea of red, white and blue. Flapping. Waving. Noisy. The party was in full swing. It was nine o’clock in the morning. Tin cans were already lying empty. Cluttering Disraeli Avenue. I stayed in my mother’s front room. I peeped through the window every now and then. I didn’t want to go outside. I wanted to soak up every moment that the BBC was supplying. I was excited. Really excited. A princess. I was going to see a real princess.

Every one of the neighbours joined in. It had been arranged. Mrs Hodgson (Number 2) had gone around with a list of food. Rita and my father had to bring sausages on sticks. It was all planned. The men had put up bunting. The women were fussing around the still folded tables. Waiting for someone to put them out. Needing someone to put them out. The children. Some children were playing hide and seek. Noisy. Rush rush. Run and hide. I could see Paul Hodgson (Number 2). He was crouched in my mother’s garden. It wasn’t a good hiding place. The street was noisy. Alive. Screaming. Squealing. Over the radios. Over music. Screeching. Over the blaring television screens. Everything was on full volume. Everyone switched on. Open front doors. In and out of each others’ houses. Rita had cleaned my mother’s house. It was polished and vacuumed and spick and span. She was happy to leave my mother’s front door open. In and out. In and out. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like the neighbours being in my mother’s house. They were too noisy. I needed to listen. I needed to see. I needed silence. I needed to concentrate.

My father helped Mr Johnson (Number 19) and Mr Douglas (Number 8) set out the tables. They were wallpapering tables. Different sizes. They didn’t quite join together properly. Paper table cloths were put onto them. Red, white and blue. The tables stretched from Number 5 to Number 19 Disraeli Avenue. No chairs at the table, but there were some deckchairs. Placed along the pavement. The two entrances to the avenue were blocked off. Two chairs and a plank across. Mr Smith (Number 23) was a builder. He made the two blocks. Mrs Scott (Number 25) said that Mr Smith had done a good job. First time he ever did something on time. Bloody waste of space lazy arse. Everything was arranged. Tin cans of beer bobbed around in buckets of cold water. Scattered along the street. The food was foiled. Placed out along the centre of the table. Neatly. Aunty Maggie made rice. Mrs Roberts (Number 21), Mrs Johnson (Number 19) and Mrs Andrews (Number 18) brought plates of sandwiches. Spam, jam, ham and egg. There were other foods. They appeared in between my peeping. Cakes. Crisps. Scones. I wanted to know who brought them. I needed to know how they got there. I wanted to know. But. I was distracted. I was waiting. Watching. Waiting to see the princess.

Sausage rolls.

Crispy cakes.

Jelly.

Fairy cakes.

Scones.

Biscuits.

Crisps.

Hard-boiled eggs.

Crackers.

Spam sandwiches.

Ham sandwiches.

Jam sandwiches.

Egg sandwiches.

Rice.

A reet royal spread.

At the table, outside my mother’s house, Rita poked sausages onto cocktail sticks. She wore a commemorative apron over a short red skirt and a white shirt. Her white stilettos finished off the look. She looked quite normal from the front, but not from behind. As she bent over the table her fat dimply thighs squelched under the hem of the skirt. No tights because it was the summer. It was hot. The sun was shining. Rita was orange from her sunbed sessions. Like a wrinkled Satsuma. Mrs Lancaster (Number 7) told Rita that the tan made her legs look thinner. I didn’t understand. She had fat thighs. Big fat orange pork sausages. Juicer than the flimsy ones that she was poking onto sticks. I watched them all from my mother’s front room window. I heard everything through the open windows. But I would look only when there was a break or a boring discussion on TV.