The Songs of Manolo Escobar (10 page)

It was around eleven-thirty when I heard the front door open and the sound of Spanish voices in the hallway. I waited until they moved into the living-room before climbing out of bed, and tentatively making my way downstairs. The hallway was dark and as cold as snow. Any residual heat that had built up through the evening had dissipated into the night when the door had opened, replaced by an icy swirl of air suffused with the acrid smell of coal smoke from neighbours' chimneys.

Gently, I pushed open the door to the living-room and peered inside. A woman and two children stood between Mama and Papa. Pablito was seated on the settee with his fist trapped under his chin, his eyes darting back and forth between our parents.

The strangers looked cold and hunted. The children – a boy of about eight and a younger girl – stood close to the woman, as though they were hiding behind her, each holding on to a leg. The boy clutched a dirty, brown, slickly matted cuddly toy close to his face with his thumb secreted inside his mouth, hard against his cheek. Their look was a world away from the people I was used to seeing in Mosspark. With their black hair and swarthy complexions, they more closely resembled us, but they were even darker, and with thin, almond-shaped eyes they appeared almost oriental.

After a tense stand-off the woman spoke, cautiously. Although she was speaking in Spanish, I was able to deduce that she was apologising. Mama interrupted, addressing her directly, then midway through her speech she turned to Papa and switched from Spanish to English.

‘I told you I don't want them here. Why have you put me in this position?'

Papa opened his palms entreatingly. ‘Wha you want me dae, put them out on the street? They have nowhere tae go.'

‘That's not my problem, Pablo, I've told you a dozen times. What do I have to say to make you understand?'

‘These people, they are lucky tae be alive. They come thousands a miles tae be safe and wha we dae, throw them out?' he asked.

‘Why don't you send them to stay with Santa Maria? She is a rich college lecturer. She has plenty of room.'

‘She already have a family stay with her.'

Mama laughed. The three strangers watched the exchange in silence, wincing as each contribution was delivered.

‘Does she know where we live?' Mama asked. ‘Does she know how many rooms we have? Have you told her, Mister Big Shot, in your tailored suit and your handmade shoes? Does she know that we live in a two-bedroom council house?'

The little girl began to cry and Mama stepped forward and lifted her into her arms, kissing her on the side of the head.

‘Está bien, querido, no hay necesidad de llorar,'
she said. ‘It's all right, my darling, there's no need to cry.'

She saw me standing in the doorway and her expression hardened. ‘You, get up to your bed,' she ordered sternly. ‘This has nothing to do with you.'

I left and returned to the top of the stairs, from where I tried to listen to the rest of proceedings, but the door to the living-room had been closed and the voices were muffled and indistinct. What snatches of conversation I did catch were in Spanish, so, defeated, I went to bed and fell asleep.

I was woken by Mama ordering me from my bed. I guessed from the breaking light outside it was the early hours of the morning. She ushered me downstairs to the living-room, where two makeshift beds had been prepared using cushions from the settee and sleeping bags. She told me I was to sleep in one of them alongside Pablito. The family of odd, frightened-looking strangers was to have our bedroom.

T
here was a holiday feel about waking in a room that wasn't my bedroom, finding the hallway populated by strangers and having to queue for the bathroom. The children huddled, unblinking, under the protective arms of their mother, and they moved around as a unit.

Papa had already left for work. I'd heard him and Mama arguing in their bedroom earlier in the morning, in English. That was the one good thing about having the Chileans to stay – my parents couldn't say anything private in Spanish.

Finally it was my turn for the bathroom, which was just as well, because I was running late for school. I brushed my teeth, washed my face and ran downstairs to find the Chileans perched together on the sofa, looking painfully self-conscious, like animals in a zoo. They wore shabby, ill-fitting clothes – heavy-knit sweaters several sizes too big, with frayed shirt collars and baggy, threadbare trousers that extended below their feet.

The boy gripped his cuddly toy, which on closer inspection appeared to be a lion, close to his chest, and the little girl sang quietly to herself. She stood up and paced back and forth along the length of the window bay, running her hand along the sill. The mother had an unnerving, fixed smile on her face, though I could tell that underneath she was anxious and exhausted.

Mama appeared in the kitchen doorway looking harassed, an apron tied around her dressing-gown, and she said something to me in Spanish. I stared at her blankly and asked her to speak in English.

‘I said you'd better leave, you don't have time for breakfast because you were made to wait so long to get into the toilet.'

I knew Mama had spoken in Spanish so the Chileans would know what she was saying. The woman stared at the floor. I said goodbye to everyone and forced a smile. I felt sorry for the Chileans, but I agreed with Mama: they had to go.

When I arrived at the school gates Max Miller was standing with Jim Sweeney, playing with a set of clackers that Sweeney's big sister had brought back from a holiday in Benidorm. I felt Max Miller's gaze follow me as I walked by.

‘Hey, Speedy, why don't you show us how these things work?' he shouted.

It was the first time he'd spoken to me since I'd pummelled his face, and it unnerved me that he was being so cocksure. I panicked – perhaps he knew about the Chileans and was toying with me? But that wasn't possible, the Chileans hadn't arrived until late the previous evening, after dark. He couldn't have seen them, could he? His ma would never have let him out on the streets at that time. Perhaps his da had seen them when he was walking home from the bowling club; but they lived on the other side of Mosspark, he'd have had to take a lengthy detour to pass our house.

‘Shove it up your arse, Miller,' I ventured, monitoring his face closely for any reaction.

He walked away. It was a good sign. If he had known about the Chileans, he'd certainly have said something then – he wouldn't have been able to help himself. I began to relax, but I wasn't taking anything for granted. It was morning, and I didn't know for sure that no one else had seen them. If I could just make it until the end of the day I'd be safe, because by then they'd be gone.

When I returned home, not only were they still there, but the children were now dressed in my old clothes. I protested to Mama, but she shot me an angry stare.

‘They arrived here with nothing,' she said quietly, so they wouldn't hear. ‘They stepped off the plane with only the clothes they were dressed in. They had to buy jumpers and trousers from
a charity shop. Surely you wouldn't deny them old clothes that don't even fit you now?'

When she put it like that, how could I refuse? Actually, I had no real objection to them wearing my old clothes. I hated them anyway – greying, too-tight vests, scratchy shirts, and grimly functional hand-knitted sweaters in assorted ugly hues. And I didn't even mind sleeping in the living-room again. What troubled me was the apparent shift in Mama's attitude. When I'd left for school that morning, she was determined that they'd be away by evening. Now she seemed to be mellowing, and there was no sign of them departing any time soon. The threat was clear to me – the longer they stayed, the greater the possibility I'd be tainted by association with them. All it would take was for someone to recognise they were wearing my old clothes, and the connection would be made.

Two nights stretched into three and three into four. Still there was no sign of them leaving. Emilia, the mother, helped Mama with the laundry and the shopping, and they spent long hours sitting at the kitchen table, drinking endless cups of coffee made with the strong Colombian beans that the cabin crews brought back from Spain for Papa.

Then, after a week, Mama suddenly announced they'd be moving to the other side of the estate. A friend of hers who was a cleaner for an official in the housing department had managed to wangle them temporary accommodation until they could be assessed properly by the council. I was so relieved that I even allowed myself a moment of sympathy for them. In spite of myself I actually quite liked the boy, Jorge, who was quiet and good-natured, and a skilled footballer. His little sister Alejandra was a bit annoying, always trying to play with us, but she was also very sweet, the way she lost her temper and scolded me in Spanish if she thought I wasn't paying her enough attention.

Despite her early opposition, Mama had become friendly with Emilia, and I knew she'd miss having her around.

‘Don't worry, Mama,' I told her. ‘She'll only be ten minutes away. You can still meet up with her.'

‘And of course you'll see Jorge at school,' Mama added cheerfully.

My heart thumped. It hadn't occurred to me the Chileans would have to go to school, far less my school. Alejandra was still of nursery age, but Jorge was only a few months younger than me, so he'd be in the same year, perhaps even the same class. To make matters worse, Mama wanted me to walk with him to school until he got settled in. I felt sick. This was my worst nightmare come true. Max Miller would have a field day.

The goodwill I'd felt towards the Chileans suddenly evaporated. I didn't want anything to do with them, with Jorge and his weird accent, his stupid Beatles haircut and his hand-me-down clothes.

The day he was due to start school I was despatched early to collect him from his house, to accompany him to the school gates. I'd barely slept the night before, worrying about what would happen if I was seen in his company. I came up with a dozen reasons why I couldn't do it – I'd be late for school; I had a stomach bug; the traffic was too dangerous on that side of the estate; I didn't even like him; there was no reason why he couldn't make his own way to school; he'd have to learn to stand on his own feet sooner or later; it wasn't fair.

For every argument, Mama had an answer. It was still only half-past seven, I had plenty of time; I could take cod liver oil for my stomach; I could walk on the pavements, that way I'd avoid the traffic; I didn't have to like Jorge, I just had to collect him; he was eight years old, he didn't speak English, and he didn't know the way to the school; he could start standing on his own two feet tomorrow; life wasn't fair.

I trudged down Mosspark Avenue as though I was on my way to the dentist. I could already imagine the scornful jeers of my classmates. It all seemed so unfair. There was nothing I could do about my family. It wasn't my fault my background distinguished
me so conspicuously from my Scottish classmates. I had no control over the fact that that we had neither a family tartan nor a surname that began with Mac. I was different, but over the years I'd learned to live with it. Now, it seemed, all that was in danger of being washed away. I wasn't going to stand for it. I was Spanish, that much was incontestable, but I wouldn't be answerable for a family of Chilean refugees.

Jorge was a decent enough boy, but I'd paid my dues for being foreign, and I'd done it alone. By the time I'd started at primary school, Pablito had already moved on to the secondary school, so I'd had no one to stand up for me. I'd fought my own battles, and Jorge would have to do the same. Why should I provide him with support that had been denied to me? If he was coming to my school, he'd have to take care of himself.

When I got to Alcaig Road, a couple of hundred yards from his house, I turned right and doubled back. I arrived at the school gates and looked up at the full horror of what I knew would greet him on his arrival. Mama had told me about the tiny, rural schoolhouse Jorge had attended back in Chile – it apparently had clematis growing round the door and mandarin trees in the playground. Our school was a joyless, functional four-storey structure of grey concrete, built on stilts, surrounded by a running track and a high perimeter fence. Its main catchment areas were the badlands of Pollok and Govan, whose residents regarded Mosspark as an oasis of privilege – we had gardens and cars, and some of our parents even worked in offices. I cringed thinking about what the Pollok boys would make of Jorge.

Among their members was Joey Adams, whose brother had done time at Barlinnie following an incident at The Cart Bar. The details were shrouded in mystery, but rumours involved a ceremonial sword and a cut-off ear. Then there was Jerry Chaney, who wore a silver hooped earring that Mad Dog Murison made him remove before class every morning. Chaney was also made to wear a glove on his right hand because he had an Indian-ink tattoo across his knuckles that said ‘
FUCK
'.

At nine o'clock the sound of the bell drowned out the deafening chorus of voices as hundreds of pupils slowly stopped their games of football and marbles, skipping and hopscotch, and trudged across the playground to their class lines.

A few moments later Mad Dog appeared, red and impatient, and he began to usher the first of the classes through the large double doors. Mad Dog was a bad-tempered pipe-smoker who wore Black Watch tartan trousers and a pale green herringbone tweed jacket over his short, sinewy frame. He had a bushy, nicotine-stained moustache, which drooped at the ends, and an ill-fitting grey toupee.

He'd served in one of the forces – no one knew for sure which one – before becoming a teacher, and he spent all of his spare time on manoeuvres with the Territorial Army in the Cairngorms. He was unmarried, and it was rumoured he had a lead-lined underground bunker in his garden that he kept stocked with bottles of water and tins of corned beef in case of a nuclear attack.