Read Online Disappearing Home by Deborah Morgan - Free Book Online Page A

shivering. The wind blows drops of salty water to my lips.
    She unbuttons her coat and tells me to put it on. Cuts open the Vienna loaf and cheese on a tea towel, her body curved into the wind. She has a pink cardigan with rows of little holes down the front. A slice of white fringe blows out from her scarf, flapping like a wing. She flicks it out of her eye with her knuckles.
    The bread and cheese taste chewy and creamy and delicious. I huddle inside the coat, watching the pigeons flock around us, let the
eeeee
ing of the seagulls above us take my sad thoughts away. I watch the water foam up against itself.
    Taking a bite out of her butty, Nan picks off bits from the other loaf for the birds. She throws the bread out towards the railings, as far away from us as she can.
    One of the men next to us frowns. ‘That’s good bread you’re throwing, lady.’
    â€˜Would a custard pie stop your moaning?’
    He smiles and nudges the man next to him.
    Nan hands the box over like a prize.
    â€˜Is it all right to give me mate one?’
    Nan nods at him, mouth full.
    They take one custard each and hand the box back.
    When we have finished eating, both of us share the coat, one sleeve each. With the empty cake box, we shuffle over to the bin, laughing, rolled tightly together, like a Twix. Three women push babies in prams backwards against the wind. Behind them, little boys pull off sweaters and twirl them above their heads, long strands of springy navy wool flying from their cuffs.
    Cupping her face in her hands to warm it, Nan says she’d love a cup of tea. We head off for the number 3 bus. On the bus it’s warm. Nan asks me if I want to stay on until the last stop then get back on again. I say yes. It’s a free ride all the way with a bus pass, one penny for me.
    We take the front two seats downstairs. I have the window seat so I can see everything. Nan takes her scarf off and smooths down her hair. We ride across the city. Nan points churches out to me, tells me their names. St Anthony’s, St John’s, I can’t remember all the names. And pubs she used to go to with Jack when she was younger, and washing lines. You can tell a lot about a person from their washing line, she says.
    The bus stops at a block of flats like ours. Nan points to a flat on the first floor. A pair of men’s blue jeans and a pair of knickers hang on the line.
    â€˜Newly married woman, no children yet.’
    â€˜How do you know?’
    She shakes her head. ‘The jeans will never dry.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜She’s pegged them out by the waistband. And lace frillies? It’s their first six months of marriage, I’d say.’
    With two fingers, she taps out a tune on my arm, sings it out loud.
    What’s the time? Half past nine.
    Hang your knickers on the line.
    When they’re dry, bring them in.
    Iron them with a rolling pin.
    â€˜It’s like being a detective.’
    Nan nods. ‘Okay, Robyn, you have a go.’
    Squishing my nose against the window, I look across at a line that has too many clothes on it.
    â€˜Second floor, third door on the left: too many clothes on it. A family of six, maybe? Four kids, man and wife?’
    Nan shakes her head. The bus starts to pull away.
    â€˜It takes practice. Two kids, man and wife. Everything looks brand new. Maybe her man’s had a big win on the horses and she’s showing off.’
    Nan points to a line full of towels. ‘The woman who pegged that lot out has got terrible worries. Look how each towel is folded again and again before it’s been pegged. They’ll never dry. Mind somewhere else, I’ll bet.’
    The bus pulls away. Nan closes her eyes and drifts off until the last stop. We get off, board another bus and begin our journey home. On a wall behind the bus stop there’s a small black and white poster advertising a boxing match. Nan sees it, smiles to herself. I say, ‘Nan, tell me more