Tall Story - Candy Gourlay [38]
My mind was a hundred miles away. Nearly seven thousand miles away, to be exact. That’s how far the Philippines is from England. Jabbar and I did the sums by looking up longitudes on Google and adding up the miles in between. It was a long, long way.
Jabby must have been so disappointed that the Giant Killers game was postponed. But it can’t be long now before the Arena opens. It looked ready to go when he took me there.
Jabby, Jabby. Since I arrived in England, I’d been sorely tempted to pick up my cellphone and text him. But it would cost too much money. ‘Use it for emergencies,’ Ma had said. ‘International text messages are quadruple the cost. We’ll get you an English sim card later.’
Jabby must have taken a special trip to the internet café to send me that email. He didn’t own a computer.
There was so much I wanted to tell him.
I wanted to tell him about how the air was so cold, its little teeth nibbled on your bare skin all the time. How the atmosphere was so dry your skin sat tight on your face, like a mask.
I wanted to tell him how silent it was at night – no rogue roosters crowing, no barking dogs or arguing neighbours. And how beautiful London was, the rows of brick houses, the paved roads, the people all dressed up in shoes and coats and scarves, not a single one in bare feet, rubber slippers or rags – though the cold might have had something to do with that.
And I wanted to tell him about Andi.
I wanted to ask him, what could I do to be a proper big brother? Until today, it’s been Andi looking out for me instead of the other way around.
If anyone could make a connection with Andi, it would be Jabby. Jabs would be the perfect basketball-mad big brother.
And then I winced because something thrust, hard, deep into my heart. I pressed a palm against my chest. But I knew it was nothing serious. Just a pang.
I was homesick.
It was noon in London. The Philippines was eight hours ahead, so it would be 8 p.m. in San Andres. This being Sunday, Auntie would have made lunch of some pork belly deep-fried in chicken oil so that the crackling popped like popcorn. She would have made soup with steamed milkfish belly, tamarind juice and swamp cabbage, seasoned with lime.
My mouth watered at the thought.
Uncle always complained that Auntie made far too much food on Sundays. But somebody was always sure to stop by later in the afternoon: Old Tibo and Flash Gordon, Sister Len-Len with the baby, Sister Lydia, probably with an armful of purple yam jars left over from the stall.
Jabby always turned up about four and headed straight for the fridge and any leftovers. By the end of the day it felt like the entire barrio had dropped by. And Auntie will be slapping Uncle on the shoulder with a smug expression, saying, ‘I told you there’s never too much. There’s only too little.’
And then I felt something cold on my face and realized that a tear had strayed onto my cheek.
I wiped it away quickly, glancing sideways at Amandolina to see if she’d noticed.
But she wasn’t there.
19
Andi
I couldn’t believe it when BOTH Mum and Dad announced they had shifts. On a SUNDAY? And then Mum gave me that look. If a picture could paint a thousand words, one of Mum’s glances could paint an encyclopaedia. You are in charge of Bernardo until we get back from work, her glance said.
Bernardo just went all meek and mild. I think he said ‘OK’ about twenty times while Mum was giving me precise instructions on how to melt a frozen pizza for lunch. She was talking at Bernardo as she went out the door, Yakatakabaka. Brush your hair, wash your feet, cut your toenails. And Bernardo continued to nod like a car ornament. And then we sat in front of the TV and he was TOTALLY captivated by Star Wars like it was the greatest movie that ever was.
At lunch time I left Bernardo with his mouth open in front of the TV and baked the pizza, leaving it