Whenever I saw Nena on the street, I crossed to the other side. ‘She’s harmless, Nardo,’ Auntie chided. ‘She can’t do anything to you now.’
But tonight the eyes gazing at me through the matted hair were clear.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said again, reaching to shut the casement. ‘I think you should go.’
‘I forgive you,’ she whispered.
I stopped.
‘S-sorry?’
‘No hard feelings.’
‘What … what do you want from me?’
Behind the tangle of hair, the eyes glowed like embers of coal.
‘I want nothing from you. I bring you a gift, Hero. A gift.’
She reached up and pulled my hand from the sill, pushing something firmly into my palm.
It was the wishing stone.
For a moment I could see Gabriela again, dark eyes flashing, long hair black and silky as a stream … and the wishing stone, nestled in the cleft bared by her lavishly unbuttoned blouse.
It felt solid and heavy in my hand.
‘No,’ I whispered. ‘I can’t take this.’
‘This is yours. Gabriela wanted me to give it to you. That much she told me before she died.’
It looked like any stone one would find on a beach. A stone for skipping in the sea. A stone for loading in a slingshot to dislodge ripe fruit from the tops of the mango trees. But I knew its power. I knew what it could do.
‘It will grant you one wish. One wish. What is your heart’s desire?’
Longing swelled in my chest so suddenly, I almost winced. My heart’s desire? Wasn’t it obvious? Everyone knew what I wanted more than anything else.
‘I can’t accept this …’ I said faintly. But inside my head there was a clamour. Take it! Take it!…
‘She wanted you to have it. It was her dying wish.’
‘But …’
‘It’s yours, Hero.’
And then she quickly jumped down from her perch and ran to the yawning gate of our house.
‘Nardo?’
I stared at her dazedly.
‘Be careful what you wish for.’
She laughed a silent laugh, her shoulders shaking, her mouth open wide. She slapped her knee and waved, then stepped out into the muddy darkness.
6
Andi
‘You’ll love it at Saint Sim’s,’ Dad said. ‘They’ve got a new gym.’
We were driving across town in our Toyota, which would have been another good surprise for our oily estate agent because it was a teacup on wheels.
Lucky Dad. The most comfortable seat was the driver’s: Mum didn’t want to drive and of course I couldn’t.
Mum sat under a large wheelie bag in the front passenger seat. And I was in the back, buried under an avalanche of duvets. Which was probably the safest thing in case of an accident, as long as I didn’t suffocate first.
The moving lorry was to follow later in the afternoon. It was ten times the size of our flat but we didn’t have any trouble filling it up.
‘Yes!’ Mum said. ‘They offer so many sports! You can easily pick one where height is not an advantage. Table tennis. Bowling. Ukulele.’
‘Ukulele is not a sport, Mum!’
‘But it’s small – it’s perfect for you.’
‘MUM!’
Maybe she was trying to be funny.
‘Here we are!’ Dad said.
We pulled over but it took ages for Mum to liberate herself from the suitcase and me from the bedding. Dad tried to help but ended up getting Mum’s heel on his big toe. When we were finally free, we all turned to stare at our new home.
It was even bigger than I remembered. Three floors of living space. Three bedrooms. With steps leading up to a front door which was double the width of our flat. The windows were so clean they winked in the sun.
Dad was like a little boy with a new toy. He grabbed Mum’s hand and pulled her up to the front steps. She shrieked as he swung her easily into his arms like a doll.
‘Dad!’ I blushed. They were so rank. Worse than teenagers. I glanced around surreptitiously to see if any of the neighbours’ curtains were twitching.
‘Can’t a man carry his bride over the threshold of their new home?’ He beamed at Mum.
‘Oh, William,’ she giggled like an idiot.
I folded my arms across my chest and waited for them to stagger through the door or for Dad’s back to cave in, whichever came first.
‘Andi!’ Dad yelled over his shoulder. ‘What are you waiting for? Come on in.’
I went in.
I’d forgotten that the hallway was bigger than our old kitchen. The sitting room was practically a cathedral. Our sofa would totally disappear in it. The ceiling was quadruple Mum’s height!
Wow.
‘Come upstairs to the bedrooms!’ Mum said.
Dad and I followed her up.
‘This will be your bedroom, Andi.’ Mum threw open one door.
My room! I tried not to look too excited as I gazed into the cavernous space. I could paint it whatever colour I liked. I could put posters up on the walls. And I didn’t have to sleep on a trundle bed, covering my ears while Mum and Dad snored for England.
‘And if’ – Mum took a deep breath – ‘WHEN Bernardo comes, this will be his room.’ She turned the knob of the door opposite mine. It wouldn’t turn.
‘Let me try,’ Dad said. But he couldn’t open the door either. ‘It’s stuck. Don’t do anything; I’ll just go and get a screwdriver.’ He ran down the stairs.
‘Maybe we just have to push it,’ I said, leaning my shoulder on the door and pushing. The door swung open. ‘See!’
‘What was that sound?’ Mum said.
It was a gentle rumble like traffic approaching.
And then there was a thunderclap.
And then the ceiling fell down.
7
Bernardo
I knew, the moment I saw the envelope inside the mailbox.
I knew, even before I saw the logo.
I knew before I tore it open.
I had wished upon the wishing stone so I knew.
But still my hands shook as I read the letter and tears sprang to my eyes. I had waited for this moment my whole life. But alongside the joy, I felt a stab of fear.
‘What is it, Nardo? Is it from London?’ Uncle called from where he sat, a newspaper on his lap. He reached across and switched off the stereo just as Auntie’s favourite singer, Tom Jones, was about to belt out another chorus.
In the sudden silence, I held the letter out to him.
Uncle spotted the official logo at the top of the page. ‘Oh my God.’ He stood up and took the letter from me, holding it close to his nose as if the writing had suddenly become too small to read.
‘Why did you turn off the stereo?’ Auntie appeared at the kitchen door.
Uncle just looked at her, still holding the letter up to his face.
‘What? What is it?’ Auntie Sofia bustled over and read over Uncle’s shoulder. ‘OH MY GOD!’ She snatched it from Uncle and read it again, her mouth wide open.
It was from the British Home Office. Granting me permission to live in London.
Uncle and Auntie both looked so dumbfounded I could have laughed. But I felt dizzy, the booming of my heart filled my ears and the sweat on my back felt icy even though it was boiling hot.
‘Oh, darling, this is fantastic!’ Auntie hugged the letter and bounced with excitement, all her bumps jiggling like jelly.
‘London, here you come!’ Uncle grinned so wide his face seemed split in half. ‘At last!’
I smiled down at them, a warmth spreading swiftly from my tummy to the tuft of hair on the top of my head which always brushed against the ceiling. A walking feather duster, Auntie called me. ‘Look at those ceilings,’ she said. ‘No cobwebs in sight, thanks to our Nardo.’
My fingers closed around the wishing stone in my pocket. She wanted you to have it. It was her dying wish. I tried not to wonder why Gabriela
would leave me the stone. I tried not to remember Mad Nena’s last words. Be careful what you wish for.
In my fingers, the stone suddenly flared with a burning heat. I pulled my hand away just as both Uncle and Auntie reached up to embrace me.
Uncle frowned. ‘Nardo? What’s wrong?’
Auntie stared at my face, her lips forming a round ‘o’. The letter fell from her hands.
I opened my mouth to reply. Nothing. Nothing at all. I’m so happy. At last. At last.
But my lips had turned to granite. I heard a strange grating noise, like an old gate sagging open. It was coming from the back of my throat where a pebble had lodged, trapping all the words. Gragrrgh, I said through solid jaws.
Then there was something on my shoulder. Something big and round and rough. And damp. It was so damp.
It grew heavier and heavier and heavier. Crushingly heavy. Bending me down, down, down. A boulder. A mountain. What was it?
It was the Earth.
The Earth? Had I gone crazy?
I stood there like Atlas, oceans and rivers sending trickles of water down my arm, forests like sandpaper against my skin, mountains poking into the nape of my neck.
Too heavy, too heavy. I couldn’t … It slipped down my shoulder and I could have cried out as the mountain peaks jabbed hard against my skin. My muscles ached as I tried not to buckle under the weight, my hands scrabbling to hold on to it, the dirt grinding under my fingernails.
Mustn’t drop it. Mustn’t drop the Earth.
Then Auntie screamed and everything went black.
When I opened my eyes, Auntie and Uncle were leaning over me, their faces squeezed into frowns.
Behind them, Jabby bobbed around like a balloon. Jabby? I shut my eyes and opened them again. But Jabby wasn’t here a moment ago when … when …
‘Oh thank the Lord, he’s awake,’ Auntie said, crossing herself.
‘Jabby?’ I murmured.
Jabby pressed forward. He had his backpack over his shoulder like he’d just walked in. ‘You OK, Nards?’ he asked.
‘I’m fine,’ I said, slowly becoming aware that the thing digging into the back of my neck was not the Earth but the hard wooden arm of the settee. I touched my shirt, which had been soaking from the dripping oceans. It was dry.
‘Do you think we should call a doctor?’ Uncle said.
I looked out of the window. From where I lay I could just see the yellow haloes of the coconut trees as the sun set. Tricycle cabs clattered on the street outside and the odour of stir-frying garlic, onions and tomatoes wafted in from Sister Len-Len’s next door.
But just a moment ago I had the Earth on my shoulder, warm and damp and trickling. Was it a dream? Or was I going mad?
‘Nards.’ Jabby dropped the backpack on the floor and knelt down next to me. ‘I think you ought to say something else, otherwise we might think you’ve cracked your coconut.’
I pushed him away.
‘Don’t crowd him, Henry, he needs air.’ Auntie nudged Jabby on the shoulder.
Jabby’s real name is Henry but when he caught basketball fever he adopted the name Jabbar – as in Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, a star from the olden days who scored more points, blocked more shots, won more prizes than any other player in his league.
‘Please, Sister Sofia, don’t call me Henry, call me Jabbar!’ Jabby said automatically. ‘Have you heard of Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, the basketball legend? He—’
‘You suddenly fell, Nardo,’ Uncle interrupted, watching me with serious eyes. ‘It was a business getting you into the chair. You weigh a ton. How do you feel?’
I felt fine. I pushed myself up on my elbow and ran a hand across the ache at the back of my neck.
‘When did Jabby come in?’
‘I was hungry so I came over,’ Jabby said with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
‘HENRY!’ Auntie glared at him. ‘Stay away from my fridge!’
‘You were out for only two or three minutes.’ Uncle stared at me thoughtfully.
Auntie frowned. ‘How do you feel now, Nardo? Victor, we ought to take him to a doctor—’
‘No, no.’ I got slowly to my feet. ‘I … I’m fine.’
‘Nardo!’
Auntie’s voice echoed somewhere in the back of my brain. Her mouth opened and closed but all I could hear were distant murmurs, like I was swimming under water. Uncle’s face swam up close. I shook my head. The walls of the sitting room seemed to press inwards.
I squinted at Jabby.
He looked shiny, as if a spotlight was picking out every curve of his broad shoulders, every line of his laughing face. I made a wish, Jabby, I wanted to say. I made a wish on the wishing stone and it came true. I’m going to London!
Uncle caught my eye from over Jabby’s shoulder. He shook his head silently and held his finger up to his lips.
Jabby grinned, unaware.
Uncle cleared his throat. ‘We need to discuss that … uh … letter, yes? You mustn’t um tell … you know …’
‘Yes, yes, Uncle.’ I gave him a hard look. ‘I understand.’ They didn’t want me to tell Jabby about London. They didn’t want anyone to know that I was going to leave town.
Uncle gave me a tight-lipped smile.
I sighed. ‘Uncle, I need to go outside. I need some air.’
‘But you’re not well.’ Auntie twisted her fingers into a knot.
‘I’ll be OK,’ I said firmly. ‘Come on, Jabs.’ I turned to leave, thrusting my hands into my pockets.
My hand closed around it again. Hard and flat and round. It was still warm.
The wishing stone.
8
Andi
I only went to the Philippines that one time with Mum and Dad when I was just three years old.
And though I have a vague recollection of the heat and the itch of mosquito bites, the rest is a blur.
What I do remember is the earthquake.
It was the middle of the night and I was lying next to Mum. It must have been a small bed because we were cuddled up close together, sweat breaking out wherever skin touched. There was an electric fan. A pink nylon mosquito net hung from the ceiling, its edges tucked under our mattress. Dad had come with us to the Philippines but I couldn’t remember him being in the same bed. He must have slept elsewhere.
I was wakeful, staring up at the pretty ripples that the electric fan blew into the mosquito net as it rotated. From the open window a street lamp bathed everything in a warm yellow glow.
Suddenly the bed began to sway, like we were on a giant swing. The motion swung me easily over the side of the bed, where the mosquito netting caught me like a trapeze safety-net.
I lay there and screamed.
Dad suddenly appeared in the doorway yelling, ‘Mary Ann! Mary Ann! The baby!’
Mum groped around the edge of the bed like she was searching for a lost remote control. I screamed until she found me.
Then Dad grabbed me and we all stumbled outside in the middle of the night, in our pyjamas.
Mum never took me to the Philippines again.
Every two years or so she would go and visit Bernardo for a few weeks, and Dad and I would go off to Cornwall or somewhere like that.
Mum said the money she saved not buying me plane tickets meant she could visit Bernardo more often. Fair enough. I guess.
So that was the one time I met Bernardo in the flesh. He must have been six years old.
But I don’t remember him.
All I remember is the earthquake.
9
Bernardo
The first time I saw the wishing stone, I wasn’t actually looking at it.
I was thirteen and in my first year at the Sacred Heart Academy. It was nestled between Gabriela’s breasts, which swelled boldly from her unbuttoned school blouse.
‘Don’t, idiot,’ Jabby had whispered. ‘She’s trouble. Stop staring.’
‘I’m not staring,’ I lied.
Jabby was tall enough to pass for a senior but I was still s
mall enough to be mistaken for a grader. Gabriela at sixteen was a full-grown woman in a tight school uniform. I couldn’t help just … looking.
‘Move it, Nardo.’ Jabby pushed me roughly in the back and I stumbled past Gabriela and her gang. She threw back her neck and laughed.
I wasn’t sure what the joke was but I smiled at her.
The Sacred Heart Academy was run by nuns from a German order, with a list of school rules and regulations that was long and precise. Boys had to have their hair cut around their ears. Girls with long hair had to tie their hair back in pony tails. Girls with short hair had to pin back their fringes. Shirts had to be buttoned up to the neck, despite the tropical heat. And the girls’ regulation navy skirts had to be one and a half inches above the middle of the knee. No jewellery was allowed.
But Gabriela wore her dark hair down to her waist and never tied it back. She hitched her skirt all the way up to mid-thigh. And around her neck she wore the wishing stone on a chain.
At the time of course I knew nothing about it, just like I knew nothing about Gabriela.
So when she smiled at me, I thought it would be rude not to smile back.
‘Idiot!’ Jabby said again, between his teeth. He turned and walked away.
Gabriela stroked the stone on her chest. ‘Do you know what this is?’
‘No.’ I looked up at her. Her lips were soft petals. Jabby paused, listening.
‘It’s a wishing stone. You need only think about something you really, really want and there it is!’
‘Really?’ I wished I didn’t sound quite so eager.
‘Really. Would you like to make a wish, little boy?’
‘He’s not a little boy,’ Jabby said. I wondered at the anger in his voice. ‘He’s the same age as me.’
‘Oh?’ Gabriela’s lashes swept briefly over her eyes, like she was considering the information carefully. Then she bent low and gazed into mine. ‘But you are so sweet and tiny.’
Tall Story Page 3