Somehow Frank Diggory always felt better after leaving his outdoor bathroom in the dead of night. At least the slightly lower heat meant he could last a few more minutes before he started to sweat once more.
But there was more than that.
On the other side of that bathroom wall was an ear. A sympathetic ear. A sympathetic and friendly ear.
Even in the dead of night.
He really didn’t like what drove him to be there, but he always felt like a burden had been lifted from his back when he left.
He wandered towards the stairs to his bedroom but stopped himself.
He had an idea.
Let’s test them. He thought. See how far they’ll go.
He cleared his throat. ‘Do you know what I really miss from my old country? A bacon roll for breakfast. Oh, and a roll with Lorne sausage. White roll. Unsweetened. Ketchup and brown HP sauce on the side. And Irn Bru. With my dinner. And I really used to love listening to ‘Loch Lomond’ by Runrig as I ate first thing in the morning. It really set me up for the day.’ he lied.
He turned away from the corner where the camera was and grinned to his bones. That’ll give them something to think about, he told himself.
Ethan was in a state of shock. He stared in front of his bank of screens, scratching his hair in sheer desperation. ‘What on earth are Lorne sausage and Irn Bru!?!? And who eats a sauce that is brown?!? Murag igit!’ he exclaimed in sheer exasperation. To no-one.
Before typing furiously onto his computer keyboard.
‘Hi Agent Hughes.’ he greeted her timidly. ‘I really need some help. Could you tell me: what is Lorne sausage and brown HP sauce and Irn Bru, and how can I get them delivered to a distant Subdivision in the Eastern Visayas by seven o’clock tomorrow morning?’
Agent Hughes looked horrified. ‘British food? Miles and miles from home? Where does he think he is: Benidorm?’
The 5.45am call was in uproar.
‘What?!?! Ian! You cannot... No!’ Alberto raged.
‘This... this has gone too far.’ Andrea snapped. ‘What is this man doing?’
‘He must know by now. He has to know.’ the convenience store owner raged. ‘Why else is he doing this?’
‘He is punishing us. That’s why.’ Alberto insisted.
‘If he is, we deserve it.’ This call had a new participant. Emet had joined, for a change, and she was far from happy. ‘We have played him. We have played him for over a month. And it isn’t right. Or fair. So what if he makes an unreasonable request or two? What have we done to him? Pretended we’re his friends, when all the time we’re being paid? How would we like it if someone did that to us? This is not Filipino hospitality. Not at all.’
Mayor John Alvarez was also on the call, having received advanced warning from Ethan that it could turn nasty. And he wasn’t happy about it. It was way too early for a man of his stature. And age. ‘Dai, I will consider this as coming from the mind of a girl who has served on the night shift and is tired.’
Emet opened her mouth to argue. Mayor Alvarez cut her off.
‘Be grateful for that.’ he scolded her. ‘Need I remind you all of what foreigners have done to our place. They have dominated us for three hundred years. They have made us their soldiers in wars that are not our own. They have made us their maids and their cleaners and their lubot-wipers. They have denied us visas and our rights. Belittled us. Dismissed us. Sent us far away from our home for months at a time. Stolen our reefs and islands as if we don’t exist. Treated us like nobodies. And now – the ultimate in insult – they amuse themselves by paying our poorest to abuse their own children. So, tell me this, Dai, what is so wrong in making money from one broken afam?’
Emet knew much better than to reply to the mayor’s thunderous rant. But it was too early. And she was tired. ‘Sir John, you should work in immigration.’ was all she could offer meekly.
The Mayor glowered at her. ‘I did. They fired me. I wasn’t perky enough.’
‘But what are we to do?’ Andrea whined in protest. ‘We have none of those things anywhere in the Philippines.’
‘I’ve spoken to MI6.’ Ethan told her. ‘They have them at the British Embassy in Manila.’
‘In their food store?’ Alberto asked.
‘In their weapons store. They use them on visitors who annoy them.’ Ethan informed them.
Andrea pulled him back to reality. ‘But they are not here.’
Ethan smiled. ‘They will be. They arrived by private jet from NAIA to Ormoc twenty minutes ago. They will be arriving soon.’
The Mayor smiled at what he was hearing. ‘This is one lucky afam.’
The sun arrived right on cue. It streamed in through Frank Diggory’s slatted glass window, easily penetrating through his thin curtains and quickly lit up the room. Within seconds, it’s glow fell on Frank’s weary eyes and jolted them awake.
He grinned.
The darkness had fled from his room. The nightmare had gone.
He needed no alarm clock, or cockerel, to tell him it was morning.
He was awake. Wide awake.
And ready for another day in Paraiso.
He jigged downstairs. Got bathed with all the enthusiasm he could muster. Sung loudly. With gusto.
No melody. Just gusto.
He didn’t hear the cries of tortured, frustrated agony emanating from Emet’s mouth, which was under her pillow.
He bolted upstairs. Put on the radio. His song played again:
And it was. It really was.
He finished getting dressed. In the same clothes, of course. Bounced to the front door. Unlocked it. Opened it.
And bathed in the Caledonian splendour of the bagpiped strains of the opening bars of Runrig’s ‘Loch Lomond’.
He smiled. ‘They got the memo.’ he told himself.
He bounded across the deserted highway into Kainan Paraiso. Greeted Andrea and Alberto.
Who seemed to be considerably less full of the joys of the morning as he was.
Andrea was just sliding the Lorne sausage off her grill and into an unsweetened white bread roll. ‘He eats this and we die of high blood pressure. How is that fair?’ she muttered to herself.
‘Ayaw nagreklamo.’ Alberto scolded her gently. ‘Mas dako nga kalipay, mas dako nga kwarta, remember?’
Andrea glared at him. ‘No amount of money could make me eat this. I can barely cook it. It’s like grilling soap!’
Frank was delighted when Alberto brought his plate. ‘Thank you. That looks delicious.’ he enthused.
‘You really need your eyes tested.’ Alberto muttered, as he returned to the sanctuary of the restaurant kitchen.
Today was different for Frank. It was Saturday. On most Saturdays, Frank would go to the convenience store, buy the same snacks that bore some resemblance to snacks from his homeland, go home and eat them in front of a full day of inane TV programmes, alone, before heading to bed.
But today was different.
Mayor Alvarez had decided to intervene.
He knew Frank’s routine. Everyone in the Subdivision did. They had received an annotated PDF briefing pack from Ethan, who had engineered and orchestrated and conducted it to perfection.
But today would be a mild aberration. And Ethan wasn’t at all comfortable with it.
Mayor Alvarez didn’t care about that.
He entered the convenience store. Which was something he hardly ever did. Not since he’d run up a tab while drunk during the last fiesta which he had no intention of paying.
Aren’t all purchases made under the influence free of charge for local politicians anyway?
The convenience store owner glared at him.
No way she was voting for him at the next election. He’d cost her a fortune. Not even his bribe would cover it.
Mayor Alvarez spotted Frank. ‘Kuya Frank. Good to see you.’ he stretched out his hand and invited him to shake it. ‘Mayor John Alvarez.’
Frank was a little taken aback. He didn’t even know Paraiso had a mayor. Or needed one. However, he was British. And British people shake hands. It is, after all, such a good substitute for real intimacy. He introduced himself. ‘Frank Diggory. Resident. Though I'm not sure I voted. Or could vote. Bit of a foreigner here, you see.’
Mayor Alvarez smiled. ‘Yes, I had noticed. I hear you’re British.’
‘I prefer Scottish. But British is fine. At least you don’t think I’m American.’ Frank grinned cheekily.
Mayor Alvarez continued, ignoring any information he felt was extraneous – which for him was usually any dissenting opinion. ‘I hear that soccer is big in your country.’
‘We call it football, because it involves a foot and a ball. It also includes socks, but we wear boots over them. As do our American cousins. So I have no idea why they call it “soccer”.’ Frank blurted. ‘You have to forgive me. I'm not good around people with power.’
Mayor Alvarez smiled widely. Frank thought he had power. That was nice. ‘Well, it has long been an ambition of mine to broaden our children’s experience of healthy sports games. So I wonder: would you like to coach our children in soccer, or football, this afternoon?’
Frank loved the idea. But British people show no enthusiasm for anything in public, except when watching football. So he quickly muted his appreciation. ‘That sounds like a pleasurable activity. But we have no equipment: no goals, balls, cones, vests...’
Mayor Alvarez had no idea what half of these things were. But a quick search on the internet helped Ethan to find them. He had ordered them from a store in Ormoc that would deliver them at midday. From their afam-hosting budget, of course. Mayor Alvarez painted himself as the hero. Again. It was kind-of his thing. ‘I have taken the liberty of procuring them.’ he told Frank. ‘They should be arriving at the basketball court a little after lunch time. I hope you don’t mind.’
Actually, Frank was delighted. But he didn’t show it. Scottish people rarely show emotion. Except if they are watching football. Or drunk. Sometimes both. Because when you are watching Scottish football, it helps. ‘That would be most agreeable. I look forward to it.’ he told the Mayor.
The Mayor left the convenience store quickly, before someone mentioned his tab. ‘Most agreeable, eh, Mister Frank? I think we have you now.’ He smiled, self-satisfactorily.
Sure enough, at midday, the equipment was there. As were the kids. Hyperactive and raring to go with anything that involved a foreigner. And free food and drink – which the Mayor had ordered from the convenience store, and was delivered on the proviso that it didn’t go on his tab.
The afam-hosting budget covered it.
Frank taught the basic fundamental first; the basic fundamental that had tripped up the Scottish national football team for generations: the object of the game is to put the ball into the goal. He set up goals underneath both baskets at either end of the basketball court. He placed the ball on the free throw line. He told them to kick into the goal.
That.... did not work well. Some missed the ball. All missed the goal. A few picked it up and threw it. One scored a slam dunk in protest.
Frank decided to do something else: passing drills. He lined them up on the boundary line and in the middle of the court. He told them to kick the ball at each other.
That did not go well.
Some kicked it so hard that they winded their partner. Others kicked it two inches and had to kick it again and again and again to get even close to where it should be. Some knocked it far beyond their partner, who ducked to get out of the way.
One broke a window in a nearby house.
The afam-hosting budget would pay.
Frank told them to try to aim for their partner’s feet.
Emet watched. But from a distance. Unseen by Frank. And doubled up in laughter.
The kids were clearly having a lot of fun. Their laughter could be heard halfway through the Subdivision.
Yet she didn’t quite feel confident about talking to Frank.
Not yet.
Not without a bathroom wall in the way.
Lunchtime came. The kids were already tired. They wolfed down free barbecue and rice and Coke and iced candy.
Frank had no doubt they would be back next Saturday.
Once lunch had been cleared away, they did another hour of training.
It was less disastrous.
But no less amusing for Emet.
Frank made the excuse that he had to go home to clean because he had guests coming later, but no-one believed him: Ma’am Roberta had been. The place was spotless.
Nevertheless, Frank returned home, bathed to rid himself of the sweat and grime, and brushed his teeth ahead of the fun activity that night.
While he was there, he heard a voice from beyond the bathroom wall. ‘Sir Frank, are you there?’
Frank spat out the white fluoride froth in his mouth. ‘Yes, Emet, I’m here.’
‘I need your help.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. What should I wear to watch the “Old Firm”?’
‘Well, do you have anything in blue or green?’
‘Erm, yes.’
‘For an Old Firm, it’s safer to wear neither...’
Hours later, people started arriving: Doctor Bedi, Alberto and Andrea arrived first, carrying dinner. With Frank’s usual ‘off-menu’ special, of course. And a couple of two-litre bottles of Irn Bru. Which no-one else would drink because they thought that it smelled of rust. Then came the bus driver. A few of his neighbours. The parents of some of the kids he’d coached. They the church pastor and his wife: Pastor Josh and Judy Manalo – Emmet’s parents.
All half an hour before the scheduled kick-off at 8pm Filipino time. But while they were listening to so many discussions of tactics and back stories and statistics and injuries, with Frank constantly having to talk over the broadcast to explain things, something still felt not right. Frank was ill at ease.
Emet was not there.
And if Frank was brutally honest, he missed her.
Next door, Emet was no longer the woman she was on the other side of the bathroom wall. She was nervous. Really, really nervous. She had never been more unsure of herself. For the past hour, she had cycled through several options for what to wear several times each: formal, informal, dressy, casual, little black dress, big, baggy hoodie.
Why was this so hard?
And why did it matter so much?
They were just friends after all!
She stared at herself hard in her bedroom mirror. ‘Oh, seriously, ‘Met. You actually like him, don’t you?’ she spoke to herself. Her cheeks blushed pink as the reality sunk in. ‘Oh, man, ‘Met! You do!’
Her phone vibrated. It was her dad. ‘Are you coming to this weird British thing? Apparently it starts in five minutes. Also, the food is starting to disappear.’
She typed a quick riposte. ‘Just got something to finish. Be there soon as I can.’
She stared at the mass of clothes lying across her bed and her bedroom floor and let loose a frustrated roar. Then she grabbed a nice tee-shirt and a knee-length skirt, put a comb through her hair, muttered, ‘Well, he’ll just have to like me the way I am’, and shot straight out of the door.
She arrived a little breathless at Frank’s door, composed herself, straightened out her skirt a little, pulled down her tee-shirt a little more, took a deep breath, said a prayer, and knocked nervously on the door.
Frank swung it gently open.
He took one look at Emet. And was transfixed.
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