Tall Story - Candy Gourlay [24]
He hesitated at the top of the escalators for so long that a queue formed behind us. I glanced over at Mum. Didn’t they have escalators in the Philippines?
But apparently he was just savouring the moment. Bernardo grinned over his shoulder. ‘I cannot believe. Yesterday only, I have be in Manila.’
Mum laughed, startling a bunch of people who were coming up the escalator on the other side. ‘Believe, believe!’ she cried, like a mad person.
Ay kennat bileeb. His vowels were hard as stones. His English is very good, Ma had said the other day. Not.
I stepped past Bernardo and got on the escalator. Obviously someone had to get things moving.
Dad had taken the lift with Bernardo’s trolley. He met us at the bottom of the escalator.
‘All right?’ he said, slapping Bernardo on the shoulder – except he missed and caught him on the elbow.
‘All right.’ Bernardo took a deep breath, like he was about to dive deep into the ocean. ‘It have very nice smell here. Everything have air-conditioned!’
Mum thought that was funny too, braying so loudly that I’m sure I saw the airport sniffer dog check her out.
I led the way without looking over my shoulder, trying to ignore the double-takes and whispers as people caught sight of Bernardo.
‘ANDI! Slow down!’ Mum yelled. She handed Bernardo a ticket to feed the entry barrier but the guard opened a gate and waved him through. ‘Health and safety!’ he called. ‘We don’t want him getting stuck in them gates.’
Trolleys were not allowed on the Underground platforms so we each took one of Bernardo’s suitcases to roll along. Bernardo had to bend low to reach the handle of his bag, which was just as well because he had to keep his head ducked to get through the low tunnel to the platform.
‘This is first time I have train,’ Bernardo said when we got to our platform. And I believed him – especially after he leaped backwards like a terrified rabbit when the train came thundering out of the tunnel’s mouth. His eyes bulged with awe as it screeched to a halt and the carriage doors rattled open.
I paused. How was he going to fit into the carriage?
But Mum was already urging him in. If the tunnels were low, the carriage was a matchbox on wheels. Bernardo practically had to unhinge his shoulders to get through the low opening. He tucked his chin deep into his chest and approached the door with his body bent into a right angle.
‘Please mind the gap,’ a metallic voice intoned on the PA as the carriage doors began to slide shut.
‘Hurry, hurry,’ Mum called, and I leaped on board as Dad swung the last bag into the carriage.
Bernardo was bent in half. It looked painful. The train set off and Mum put her arms around him, holding him up like a prop. ‘Sit, Bernardo, sit!’ He backed into a corner and sat on the floor, folding his knees sideways and angling his feet out into the standing space where Dad stood with the luggage. Mum stood next to him, rummaging in her handbag. She produced a thick woolly scarf. He just sat there like a baby, allowing her to wind it round his neck.
The train hissed and squealed as it rattled to the next station.
I crossed to the far end and leaned against the emergency door to the next carriage.
‘Andi just needs a little time to get used to you,’ Mum yelled into Bernardo’s ear. I grimaced and Mum stuck her tongue out at me. She continued to yell, switching to Tagalog.
There was a loud knocking. A bunch of teenagers in the next carriage peered through the window, waving at Bernardo. He smiled and waved back and they fell about laughing. I pulled the hood of my jacket over my head.
How did Bernardo become so tall? The other Bernardo, his dad, wasn’t very tall. Or was he? It was hard to tell from the portrait which now sat on the mantelpiece in our new, double-size sitting room.
As the train emerged from the tunnel, the darkness was replaced by a murky grey. Suddenly we were clacking over a high bridge, the lights of