The newcomer stared intently into Henryk’s face.
“He’s awfy glum-looking.” She reached into one of her bags, brought out a packet of biscuits, opened them and thrust them at Henryk. “Here, a Jaffa Cake can be very sustaining in a crisis.”
“Oh, for goodness sake.” The old man took a mobile phone out of his pocket and started to dial. “I should have done this at the off.”
Eventually Tomasz had pressed the door’s buzzers. His English was good and though he found the Scottish accents crackling down the entryphone hard to understand, it was clear no one was expecting them, and no one was about to welcome them in with an offer of a bed for the night.
The worst had happened. After all the exchanges of emails and promises, there were no jobs, no lodgings waiting for them in Glasgow. Jerzy had gone, taking their cash and their hopes with him, leaving the two men stranded.
Tomasz had given Henryk a look that was close to a curse.
“Why did I listen to you?”
He turned his back and walked quickly away.
Henryk followed. Men smoking outside pubs tailed them with their eyes and the stream of shoppers parted, giving the couple a wide berth.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have given him our money.”
“Supermarket jobs and minimum wage! All just lies. I’m a teacher. What did you expect me to do here? Stack shelves? Collect trolleys?”
They had reached the railway bridge now. Henryk grabbed his friend by the shoulder. Some youths in football strips ooohed at them as they passed.
“Kiss and make up!” one of them shouted and his friends laughed.
Henryk ignored the taunts.
“They weren’t going to let you teach any more.”
Tomasz pushed him away.
“And whose fault was that?”
He turned and ran, leaving Henryk standing beneath the bridge.
The old people were talking amongst themselves. The woman with the biscuits said, “Are you sure he’s no’ up to something? He could be casing a joint.”
Her friend laughed. “Away with you, he’s just a wee, lost boy.”
“A wee, lost Polish boy come to take our jobs.” The woman popped a biscuit into her mouth. “My Davie says there’s too many of them. Sounds like Gdansk round here some days.”
“Your Davie says more than his prayers. They’re hard workers, the Poles. My mother said the Polish airmen were always the smartest dressed during the War. All the lassies wanted to dance with them. Them or the Yanks.”
Old Tam harrumphed.
“Aye, your father came back from North Africa to find your house bombed out and your ma with a whole new set of dance moves. Mind, they had a terrible time of it during the War, the Poles...”
Their voices drifted into the grumble of passing traffic. Henryk forgot them. Tomasz was coming towards him, flanked by two policeman. The old man looked up. “That was quick. I only called youse a minute ago. We’re a wee bit concerned about this lad here.”
One of the policeman took out his notebook and asked Tomasz, “Is this the man who robbed you?”
“No.” Tomasz managed a smile. “We came here together. We are together.” He squeezed Henryk’s shoulder and said in their own language, “I’m sorry.”
Henryk clasped Tomasz in a brief hug. However hard things were, they would be all right now.
The policeman looked from one to the other, his eyes wary. He nodded, then turned away and said to his partner in a low voice, “Just a couple of poofs having a domestic.”
Henryk saw Tomasz flinch. He wondered what the policeman had said and how long it would take him, Henryk, to learn English properly. How long before he understood everything.
Mr Bo
Liza Cody
My son Nathan doesn’t believe in God, Allah, Buddha, Kali, the Great Spider Mother or the Baby Jesus. But, he believes passionately in Superman, Spider-Man, Batman, Wolverine and, come December, Santa Claus. How he works this out — bearing in mind that they all have super powers — I don’t know. Maybe he thinks the second lot wears hotter costumes. Or drives cooler vehicles, or brings better presents. Can I second guess my nine-year-old? Not a snowball’s hope in Hades.
Nathan is as much a mystery to me as his father was, and as my father was before that. And who knows where they both are now? But if there’s one thing I can congratulate myself on, it’s that I didn’t saddle my son with a stepfather. No strange man’s going to teach my boy to “dance for daddy”. Not while there’s a warm breath left in my body.
I was eleven and my sister Skye was nine when Mum brought Bobby Barnes home for the first time. He didn’t look like a lame-headed loser so we turned the telly down and said hello.
“Call me Bo,” he said, flashing a snowy smile. “All my friends do.”
So my dumb little sister said, “Hi, Mr Bo,” and blushed because he was tall and brown eyed just like the hero in her comic book.
Mum laughed high and girly, and I went to bed with a nosebleed — which is usually what happened when Mum laughed like that and smeared her lipstick.
Mr Bo moved in and Mum was happy because we were “a family”. How can you be family with a total stranger? I always wanted to ask her but I didn’t dare. She had a vicious right hand if she thought you were cheeking her.
Maybe we would be a family even now if it wasn’t for him. Maybe Nathan would have a grandma and an aunt if Mr Bo hadn’t got his feet under the table and his bonce on the pillow.
I think about it now and then. After all, some times of year are special for families, and Nathan should have grandparents, an aunt and a father.
This year I was thinking about it because sorting out the tree lights is traditionally a father’s job; as is finding the fuse box when the whole house is tripped out by a kink in the wire.
I was doing exactly that, by candlelight because Nathan had broken the torch, when the doorbell rang.
Standing in the doorway was a beautiful woman in a stylish winter coat with fur trimmings. I didn’t have time for more than a quick glance at her face because she came inside and said, “What’s up? Can’t pay the electricity bill? Just like Mum.”
“I am not like my mother.” I was furious.
“Okay, okay,” she said. “It was always way too easy to press your buttons.” And I realized that the strange woman with the American accent was Skye.
“What are you doing here?” I said, stunned.
“Hi, and it’s great to see you too,” she said. “Who’s the rabbit?”
I turned. Nathan was behind me, shadowy, with the broken torch in his hand.
“He’s not a rabbit,” I said, offended. Rabbit was Mr Bo’s name for a mark. We were all rabbits to him one way or another.
“Who’s she?” Nathan said. I’d taught him not to tell his name, address or phone number to strangers.
“I’m Skye.”
“A Scottish Island?” He sounded interested. “Or the place where clouds sit?”
“Smart and cute.”
“I’m not cute,” he said, sniffing loudly. “I’m a boy.”
“She’s your aunt,” I told him, “my sister.”
“I don’t want an aunt,” he said, staring at her flickering, candlelit face. “But an uncle might be nice.” Did I mention that all his heroes are male? Even when it’s a woman who solves all his problems, from homework to football training to simple plumbing and now, the electricity. I used to think it was because he missed a father, but it’s because you can’t interest a boy in girls until his feet get tangled in the weeds of sex.
I fixed the electricity and all the lights came on except, of course, for the tree ones which lay in a nest on the floor with the bulbs no more responsive than duck eggs. Nathan looked at me as though I’d betrayed his very life.