CHAPTER ONE: 1957 MY LITTLE BROTHER, MY LITTLE LIFE by DEE GORDON

My Mum left home today. Before she went, she left me a book with blank pages and the word JOURNAL on the front in fancy capitals, and she told me I should write down whatever comes into my head: "Not a boring diary, Linda, but your hopes, dreams, sad things and happy things." It hasn't got dates or anything in it so I don't have to write every day, which is good, and I don't have to write about what happened that day. And that's good, too. Because some days, nothing happens. And some days, like today, a lot happens.

She didn't tell me she was going, or where, or why. She just smiled and gave me the JOURNAL before walking me to school just like any other day. Except that when I came home, wondering why she had left me to walk home alone, she was gone.

At first I thought she had just gone out.

When she hadn't been there to meet me in the past, I'd walk home, like today, along Roman Road to the tall house we shared with two other families, one family on each floor. We lived on the ground floor and, if the door wasn't on the latch, somebody upstairs was sure to be there to let me in. I wouldn't be alone for long. Mum would soon rush in, out of breath, tugging little Douglas along behind her, holding a bag of doughnuts or belgian buns, and the three of us would tuck in straight away, laughing, covering each other in sugar or icing. "Sorry, Linda, there was one hell of a queue. And don't you go saying hell."

But today. Today was different. Mainly because Douglas was at home. He'd never been left alone without Mum before. He was sitting on his bed with his legs crossed, the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle in front of him. He smiled at me when I went into his room. "Fifty pieces."

Something was wrong. "Where's Mum?"

"Fifty pieces."

"Yes, Douggie, but where's Mum?"

"Fifty pieces."

  It was no good. As Mum put it, he wasn't "right in the head". So I just said "Good boy" and went on a hunt for food.

  The biscuit tin was full - and so was the larder. She must have gone shopping that day, because it had looked a bit bare this morning when I had taken out the jam for my toast. There was an envelope in the middle of the kitchen table with the word "Frank" on it - in her writing.

  I took the biscuit tin into Douglas, thinking about the envelope. Why would my Mum write a letter to my Dad? And why would she leave Douggie alone? Something was going on.

  Douglas tried to take a handful of custard creams, but I stopped him from eating more than two. "Mum will be cross. You don't want to spoil your tea."

  He said something through a mouthful of biscuit. But I think it was just "Fifty pieces".

  I tried another tack. "What time did Mummy go out?"

  "Not forty pieces." Douggie waved the lid of the jigsaw box at me, looking very pleased with himself.

  I hugged him. "Good boy. But I don't think the bed is a good place to do a jigsaw. Let's go next door."

  I settled him at the kitchen table. We never used the table and chairs in our third room, which was kept for Sundays and special occasions. We lived in just the two rooms, the kitchen and bedroom. Suppose it was a bit of a waste, but it had always been like that as long as I can remember. I checked the room, anyway, just in case Mum was there for some reason. Not that it was very likely. When I poked my nose round the door, I noticed straight away that a couple of photographs had disappeared from the mantelpiece. And Mum's purple velvet cushion was gone. That's when I began to get really worried. Otherwise, the room looked just the same as usual, and it was just as cold as usual.

  I went back into the bedroom we all shared, and opened the wardrobe door. The few remaining things belonged to me, Dad and Douggie. I looked under the bed, and our holiday suitcase was gone. The blankets kept in it had been tipped out.

  What was happening? What should I do? Should I read the letter? I went back into the kitchen and picked it up. But I couldn't do it. My Dad had never hit me, but he could sure shout. I turned it over. Perhaps I could open it and seal it up again. But what if I couldn't do it properly?

  An answer came to me. "Douggie, I'm just going upstairs. I will only be five minutes."

  He turned around in the chair, and now he was looking a bit worried, too. I tried to smile. "I'm just going to see Mrs Cohen. Five minutes."

  "Douggie come." He got up.

  "No, it's okay. Five minutes. I promise."

  He sat down again, holding up five fingers.

  "Yes, five minutes."

  When I asked Mrs Cohen if she'd seen my mother that day, she didn't seem very interested, and she didn't answer straight away. She folded her arms. "Why do you ask?"

  "Because she didn't meet me at school, she's not at home, and all her things have gone." Saying it out loud suddenly made it real, and I could feel tears starting in my eyes. Immediately, Mrs Cohen pulled off her apron, threw it behind her, and called out: "Be downstairs, Dad." Mr Cohen wasn't her Dad, he was her husband, but she always called him that.

  She followed me down the dozen shiny (thanks to her) stairs, and I showed her the near-empty wardrobe. She didn't say anything but her mouth seemed to get smaller somehow. Then I showed her the letter. "Do you think I should open it, Mrs Cohen?"

  "Is it poo-poo time?" We both looked at Douggie who had appeared in the doorway. He was looking at the kitchen clock.

  "It's not five o'clock yet Douggie."

  He went out again. I was a bit embarrassed. But Mrs Cohen just smiled. "I know ‘e likes a timetable, but I didn't know it went that far."

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