Read Online Disappearing Home by Deborah Morgan - Free Book Online

‘Smell?’ I don’t move. He kisses my cheek. I run away, take the stairs two at a time. I hear him laughing behind me. Downstairs, Nan has the radio on. ‘I might put a little bet on, Robyn. I’ve had a tip. Your face is as pink as a tongue.’
    She switches the radio off, and puts on her coat and scarf, ready to go out. Folds a handkerchief around a piece of red cheese, another around a knife, pushes them into a black shopping bag. ‘Coming?’ she asks.
    I nod.
    After Nan puts her bet on, we head off to Soho Street. On a Saturday, down on Soho Street, Sayers the bakers sell day-old cakes and bread at less than half price. There’s a queue that stretches all the way down the street; people don’t seem to mind waiting.
    Mrs Naylor comes out of the shop carrying a pile of white cake boxes stacked on top of one another, tied together with red ribbon. She parades them along the queue. The lady in front of us shouts to Mrs Naylor.
    â€˜Feeding the five thousand, love? I hope you left something in there for us.’
    Mrs Naylor nods in her direction. ‘These are a special treat for my grandchildren.’ She throws a nasty look right at my nan.
    I turn to Nan. ‘What’s the matter with her?’
    â€˜She knows the game’s up with me.’
    â€˜What does that mean?’
    â€˜I know what she’s up to. I can read between the lines.’
    â€˜What does that mean?’
    â€˜It means nobody can pull the wool over my eyes.’
    â€˜How do you read between the lines?’
    â€˜You need to think about why people do what they do.’
    â€˜Oh.’
    â€˜And what’s in it for them.’
    I watch Mrs Naylor walk away. ‘Will she give all those cakes to her grandkids?’
    â€˜Have you ever seen her grandkids visit?’
    â€˜No, never.’
    â€˜She might eat a couple herself. But most of them will stay in their boxes and rot. I caught her the other week, tipping loads of cakes down the chute. As far as I know she fell out with her son years ago. Her grandkids don’t even know she exists.’
    â€˜Why did she buy them and say they were for her grandkids?’
    â€˜Why do you think she bought them?’
    â€˜Because they’re cheap?’
    â€˜People make up games all the time, Robyn. She’s made up a little game to amuse herself. This one is to fire up the envy in people.’
    â€˜But it doesn’t make sense. Why would she want people to hate her?’
    â€˜Not hate her, remember her. Nobody around here looked twice at Mrs Naylor before she started buying that many cakes.’
    Inside the shop, the shelves are nearly empty. The ladies serving behind the counter wear white overalls, with an orange Sayers badge on the pocket. Nan buys four egg custards and two Vienna loaves, one loaf for us and one for the birds.
    We head off down to the Pier Head to watch the boats come in. It’s busy when we get there. Two men coughing up their guts shuffle along on a bench to let us sit down. They stamp out cigarette stumps. There’s nothing much left of their shoes but holes.
    It’s breezy by the river and Nan asks me where my coat is. I can’t tell her I haven’t got one, so I tell her I forgot it. I surprise myself at how easily I am learning to lie. ‘We won’t stay long,’ she says. ‘You’ll catch your death.’
    This is my favourite part of Liverpool. The Liver Building sits on the edge of the Mersey like a palace. A palace guarded by two magnificent birds. I like the idea of being watched over by something that has wings. Something that can pick itself up and leave if it feels like it, and doesn’t have to tell nobody where it’s going.
    Nan looks towards the water. ‘I got off the boat in this very place from Ireland with no shoes on my feet. I couldn’t have been much more than three years of age.’ She turns to me. ‘Hungry?’
    I nod,