Train Man

by Andrew Mulligan

  The tablet was coming to life.

  ‘You do know the Philippines?’ she said. ‘You remember where they are?’

  ‘Near Japan.’

  ‘The South China Sea – very good. Okay, first we have Jao. This is my husband.’

  She was flipping folders open, and the first picture she enlarged showed a robust man with close-cropped jet-black hair and Chinese eyes.

  ‘Jao,’ she said. ‘We were married twelve years ago. Sweethearts from the same barangay, nice wedding – this is him now, you see? Very strong.’

  Michael saw the same man in jeans and a T-shirt.

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He is a construction worker, driver. Cleaner.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Right now? This minute, he is in UAE, United Arab Emirates. He’s like me, he is part of an agency. But no work in the UK, so he earns money over there.’

  ‘Good money?’

  ‘Not bad. For us, it’s good money.’

  Another photograph flipped up.

  ‘That’s his mum, you see? And that’s his dad. That’s him again. And the money’s okay – you can live very cheaply. Like me – I live very cheaply, and all the money goes home. We have a house now. You want to see our house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Say no.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because if you say no, I won’t show you my house—’

  ‘I want to see your house, Maria,’ said Michael. ‘More than anything else in the world. Let me see it, please.’

  ‘Okay.’

  She opened another folder and pulled up more pictures. He saw a team of Filipino men, setting blocks out on a patch of mud. In the next, the walls rose up on foundations, and window frames appeared. Children watched, then disappeared: now the roof was on, and the children were inside. It was a bungalow beside a tree. He saw the other side: there was a door and they shifted to the back to a pig-pen. They moved up the hill, and he realised he was looking down, at a village, and the bungalows were surrounded by emerald green.

  ‘That’s where you live? Is that Manila?’

  ‘That’s where my mother lives. We build the house for my mother – this is outside the city, maybe a four-hour drive. One day, we go and live there too.’

  ‘It’s so beautiful.’

  ‘You think so? We have the title now, so it’s registered.’

  ‘And the children? How many do you have? You said six.’

  ‘Six, yes. No condoms, you see.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s a Catholic country, Michael. The Pope says no condoms, so my husband agrees with him. I said to him, “Two is enough,” and he agreed. Then suddenly, it’s three. Four. Look at this one… wait one minute. Give me one more whisky, just… very small.’

  Her fingers closed the photos that he’d seen, and another folder opened. This time a girl seemed to spring out at them both. She had white flowers in her hair, and you could almost hear her laughter. Maria clicked again, and she was calm, smiling a smile that brought tears to Michael’s eyes. She clicked again, and the child was fast asleep in her father’s lap. They were on a bus, and her long, dark hair fell over her face, but she was still smiling – pretending to sleep, perhaps.

  ‘Her name is Max,’ said Maria.

  ‘Max?’

  ‘Max.’

  She took the cup and sipped.

  ‘Eleven years, now. Next came Lucas… you want to see Lucas? He is very bad – a very bad, naughty boy. Every time I call, “What is Lucas doing?” Every week, something he shouldn’t be.’

  ‘At school?’

  ‘School. Home. In the street—’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘Always the wrong thing! Talking when the teacher says don’t talk. Running, jumping, falling down. He is very beautiful, but…’

  The photograph came up and Michael looked at a boy who was staring back over his shoulder. He wore a white shirt, and the camera had caught him by surprise – his eyes were wide. The next one showed him bare-chested, posing, with a smile as sweet as his sister, and the next showed a whole family group: there were a dozen people, their arms wrapped around one another. Lucas was yelling at the camera, and the joy in his eyes seemed to tilt the world – Michael found that his mouth was open.

  ‘Beautiful, yes?’ said Maria.

  She leant a little closer, and pointed them out one by one.

  ‘Max,’ she said. ‘Lucas again, shouting. My husband, his mother and father. My mother. That is Nikko, number three – we call him the monkey-boy. Miguel is four, Roxanne is number five… and the baby is Roselle. So we have three of each, and no more. Until the next power cut.’

  She opened a close-up, and Michael realised her breathing had changed, as if she’d swallowed something and it had lodged in her throat.

  ‘Eight years old last week,’ she said quietly. ‘My special.’

  ‘I’ve forgotten the name.’

  ‘Nikko, Michael – keep up.’

  ‘And he’s your special? Your special child? In what way?’

  ‘Every way. He is a boy at school, and a monkey at home – so crazy, so wild. Climbing up and up. He has no fear.’

  ‘They’re gorgeous.’

  ‘They are. They’re all special, of course—’

  ‘But of them all? Nikko’s the most.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Always gentle. Always kind.’

  The boy’s hair was so long he had to lift it up out of his eyes, and he wore a vest that would have fitted his father: it came to his knees, like a dress. What could he possibly be looking at that gave him so much pleasure? He met Michael’s eyes, and Michael had to look away, for the child’s hope and hunger for life were too intense.

  ‘That is his new shirt,’ said Maria. ‘For basketball.’

  ‘Look at his teeth.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘They’re perfect.’

  ‘Of course. But too many sweet drinks and bad food. My sister is not as strict as me, but… it’s his birthday there. After I spoke to him – look.’

  She opened another, and his face was a mess of cake – but he was still smiling through the cream, holding Michael with shining eyes.

  ‘After I said goodnight to them all,’ said Maria. ‘That’s when I got drunk.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I wasn’t with my son, Michael. Why do you think?’

  ‘Oh! Because—’

  ‘It was his birthday, and I was here. He was there.’

  She laughed, but he could see the tears in her eyes.

  ‘Who looks after them?’ he said.

  ‘My mother and my sister.’

  ‘And…’

  He was about to say, ‘And you really miss them, don’t you?’ But he just managed not to. Better not to say ignorant things, he realised. Better to let the agony peak in silence and pass – better to let her go through the pain, and remember why she was putting herself through it. Six children, all those miles away without her – their mother in a strange place, on a rock with a total stranger. For a moment Michael just managed to remember how important an eighth birthday was for a child – how the day came slowly closer, and became the biggest event the world had ever known until it finally passed, and you had to wait for the next. Maria had not been there for it – did that mean she was missing six birthdays every year? Sitting in some room in wherever it was she lived: Dumfries. Between the hospice and the school, and whatever that third job was – thinking of her three boys and her three girls, changing daily without her. And if anything bad happened, neither she nor Jao could protect them. If something went wrong, what could she do? If they were sick, or somebody did something monstrous – if they came home too upset to speak, changed forever – where was their mother when they needed her most?

  ‘How often do you speak?’ he said quietly.

  ‘Every day.’

  She called up a more formal photog
raph. The six children sat with her and her husband.

  ‘Have you spoken today?’

  ‘Before breakfast, yes. They go to school,’ she said, and he saw her wipe her eyes.

  ‘That is their school dress, you see. Max, Lucas, Nikko, Miguel. It’s a nice school – not a government school.’

  ‘Expensive?’

  ‘Of course. But they study.’

  ‘Even Lucas?’

  She laughed.

  ‘Of course. He knows how angry we will be! And he is… He is also very clever. So smart… and oh, Michael, look at Max…’

  ‘How long do you stay in the UK?’ said Michael gently.

  ‘I’ve been here two years. If I am lucky, two years more.’

  ‘Then home for good?’

  ‘I hope so. Please God.’

  ‘Please God.’

  ‘You don’t believe in him. Why do you say that?’

  ‘I’m pretending to. What about Jao?’

  ‘How long for him? Ah, he will stay working, for as long as he can. You don’t understand, I think. To have work here, or there – where he is… We are very, very lucky.’

  Now she had started to cry.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Take no notice – this happens every day. I say to my husband, “Three times a day!” But… look. This is Nikko and Roselle, together – see how he holds her? He loves everyone so much, and he says to me, “Mummy…”’

  For a moment, she couldn’t continue.

  Michael put his arm around her, and she leaned against him.

  ‘Wait,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s a signal. Wait – you want to speak to them?’

  She wiped her eyes, laughing.

  ‘My sister will be angry, but I don’t care. Okay? They are eating now. What’s the time?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s twelve o’clock, just gone, so seven in the Philippines. You want to meet them? Speak to them?’

  ‘I don’t understand—’

  ‘We have a signal, Michael. You don’t use computers?’

  She had opened the tablet’s little bag again, and was searching for something.

  ‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘All the time.’

  ‘For calling your friends?’

  ‘No. You’re calling them now? Maria…’

  ‘Hush. Wait.’

  ‘We’re on a mountain.’

  ‘So what? You have a signal on a mountain, always. The best.’

  She had a plastic clip, and he watched her fingers as they inserted its tiny cable into some hidden socket or port. Then she was closing windows on the screen and opening new ones. She called up a grid of numbers somehow, and tapped them until they spun and expanded – they were like petals, which came together and resolved into an image of a little house. She was signing into something.

  ‘They will think you are a scary man,’ she said. ‘Joking.’

  Cartoon people appeared, waddling across the screen: truncated bodies with cartoon eyes that blinked together. Then the tablet was alive in every sense: it was buzzing and chirping, and he saw that she was completely serious, and making a connection across those thousands of miles. You really could stand in the middle of a wilderness, and reach out to another continent. She was doing it, and presumably somewhere in Manila a phone or another tablet was ringing and shuddering, and someone was walking towards it.

  ‘Is this expensive?’ said Michael.

  ‘No,’ said Maria. ‘I mean, yes. Very.’

  Her sister’s phone rang soon after seven in the evening, Manila time. The satellites took the signal, bouncing it around the curve of the world until a face appeared on the screen, just a little concerned.

  ‘Maria?’ said a voice. It was so far away: so thin, and so distant.

  ‘Maria… Ok-ka lang? Are you okay?’

  31

  It was her sister, and the next moment Max was beside her.

  They were in the street, it seemed – Michael peered, trying to work out what he was looking at, but everything moved too fast. They were holding a phone, presumably, or a tablet, and it spun as they walked and turned, allowing him a glimpse of what might have been a barber’s shop. Someone was reclining in a red chair, but that flashed past and there were people moving around some kind of tricycle, with an old man on the saddle. There was a din of traffic and the blasting of horns – over that, more language that he couldn’t understand.

  Maria was saying, ‘Wait. Wait!’

  ‘Are you okay?’ said the voice.

  Maria was talking fast, and the words sounded to Michael like a kind of birdsong, interspersed with her usual laughter – the street was suddenly full of tables, and he saw bottles of beer. A taxi was parked behind or in front, but they were moving into a shack of some kind, and it was immediately darker. All at once, the picture settled, and they were in a bedroom or a lounge – he could see a mattress, but then a table and a stove with saucepans. A lamp illuminated an old woman’s face, and within seconds three children had gathered, shoulder to shoulder.

  The language bubbled, and the phone was passed or grabbed. At last it was still again, and now there were no children at all, but only the sister.

  ‘I’m fine, I’m fine!’ cried Maria.

  The children returned.

  There were four of them this time, and still the strange syllables looped and danced, peppered with cries and laughter. He recognised Max, but then her head was pushed aside by the little boy with long hair – it was eight-year-old Nikko, alive and jumping at the screen. What did he have to say that was so urgent? And what could be so funny?

  ‘Okay, no,’ said Maria. ‘Okay – stop. You speak in English, please. Max!’

  Somehow, she organised them – she couldn’t silence them, but there was some semblance of order, and Michael gazed at faces that gazed back at him. He hid behind Maria, and the giggling continued mixed with shouts from somewhere and more car horns. Maria was adjusting the volume, and spoke in her own language still. Max and Lucas and Nikko. The other was a boy, but Michael couldn’t remember his name – and he looked sleepy, his big eyes blinking.

  ‘Say hello,’ said Maria – but she was saying it to her children. ‘Say hello, please. This is my friend, so we speak English.’

  ‘Hello, uncle!’ shouted one of them – it was Lucas, whose head was almost shaved.

  For some reason, they could not stop laughing, and then they started to wave. Up on the rock, Michael looked at the hands waving as Maria laughed with them – for she was excited, too. This was the second call of the day, he remembered – did that make it illicit? Was that why they were so, so excited? – because calls had to be rationed, and this was late and extra-special?

  She hushed them.

  ‘Go on, Michael,’ she said. ‘They want to hear your voice. I tell them you are my bodyguard, and I say you’re looking after me.’

  ‘What shall I say?’

  The children shouted with joy, and he realised they had seen him properly for the first time. Maria was angling the tablet so they had a clear view of his idiot face. She was offering the device to him.

  ‘Uncle!’ cried Lucas. ‘How are you? How are you?’

  Again, his throat was constricted.

  Yet again, words seemed so hard to come by, but he took the tablet from Maria and brought it closer. The children were laughing, and when he put his nose near to the glass they screamed. They were waving still, and he could feel an ache, and a fear that he hadn’t felt for years. On top of that came the realisation that he didn’t deserve what was happening, because he shouldn’t be here. He was wearing another man’s coat and another man’s boots. He should have been dead by now. Whatever he said next would have to be intelligent, or even profound – he wanted to say something appropriate to the occasion but he couldn’t find a single worthwhile syllable.

  He put his hand up and waved, and this time it was the daughter who spoke.

  ‘What is your name?’ sai
d Max.

  He licked his lips.

  ‘Michael,’ he said firmly.

  ‘Hello, uncle.’

  Inspiration came at last. ‘What are your names?’ he said slowly.

  They told him. They introduced themselves and each other. They pushed to be closer to the screen and Michael could only stare in wonder. They told him their ages, in slow, hesitant English.

  ‘Where do you live?’ said Lucas, and Michael told him.

  ‘What is your age?’ said Nikko, but his sister shushed him, and there was more talk in their own language. Maria took the tablet from Michael, and held it steady for him.

  ‘We have had a long walk,’ he said.

  ‘Oh,’ said Max. ‘Good.’

  ‘Your mother and I. We have been walking – together. We have come many miles.’

  He could hear his own robotic voice, and wondered why he was speaking so awkwardly, as if he had only just learned how to talk. It was as if his mouth had been sewn up for years.

  ‘The weather,’ he said. ‘It’s been quite… changeable.’

  Lucas said something in his own language, and Max pinched him. He writhed and squealed, and Maria had to shush them again. Whoever was holding the phone dropped it and picked it up, and Michael felt drunk. He felt as if he were reeling.

  ‘When are you going to bed?’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘When is your bedtime? Sleeping.’

  ‘No sleeping,’ said Nikko.

  ‘You have school tomorrow?’ he asked.

  ‘No school!’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘What? Yes!’

  They nodded, and Max found a school book from somewhere and showed him a piece of writing. Again, the phone seemed to spin and he caught glimpses of a barred window with a crimson curtain. There was the table and the chair. The children’s English fractured back into the local tongue, and all the time there was the same excited, teasing laughter. At last it was still, and the children’s faces filled the screen.

  ‘This our house,’ said Max.

  ‘It looks lovely.’

  ‘You see Roselle? Here…’

  The picture slipped away, and Michael found he was looking at a baby in someone’s arms. She was fast asleep – in fact, she appeared to be concentrating hard on not waking up or opening her eyes. He heard the blast of an extra-loud car horn, and still she slept. Then Maria was talking in her own language, and the phone closed in on the baby, and turned around to reveal who was holding it: bald Lucas reappeared, grinning happily, and he was joined by Nikko who stuck his head up between his brother’s outstretched arms, and filled the screen with his own wild, shining face.