Free A Lizard In My Luggage by Anna Nicholas Page B

all.'
    Â Â He puffs up his cheeks. 'Hey and listen, don't come sneaking around at night when we're doing our vocals. Me and the boys are working on some new numbers. So long, kid.' He slides inelegantly into the ink-black water.
    Â Â I get up slowly and make my way back to the house. Alan is standing sleepily in the entrada , having fetched a glass of water from the kitchen.
    Â Â 'What were you doing out there?' he yawns.
    Â Â 'Just cooling off.'
    Â Â He's at the top of the stairs when he calls back dreamily, not expecting an answer, 'Well as long as you're feeling OK.'
    Â Â Hardly. I'm hallucinating that I'm talking with an American toad and it's the best conversation I've had all year.

FOUR
    DONKEY WORK

    Ollie is scowling at me and scuffing one of his new black shoes against a wall. I don't bother to chastise him. Around us are children of all ages tearing about, screaming, laughing, babbling in various languages and playing with balls. Sun-kissed parents in shorts and T-shirts appear to be cheerfully exchanging news. I don't spy any designer labels and there are few nannies, for that matter. The noise is intense. A tall, smiling woman in a red jacket whom I recognise as the headmistress is standing surrounded by teenage girls, all of them vying to kiss her cheeks. I'm mesmerised, imagining that this must be some sort of new term ritual. Several gangly youths are slouching along towards a similar group some way off. Maybe two rival gangs? But no, now they're all laughing, calling out and falling on each other with bear hugs and hand shakes. A school where it's cool to hug?
    Â Â 'So will anyone speak English?' hisses Ollie, hoisting up his oversized grey school shorts. His skinny legs are covered in bruises and scratches, the spoils of football and treacherous ant hunts. I make reassuring clucking noises. His wavy blond hair is tousled and kissing the tip of his nose so I vainly attempt to smooth it back with my hand. He flinches, mortified, his blue eyes flashing angrily at me. 'What on earth are you doing? Someone might see!' He peers round furtively.
    Â Â 'Well, you look like a Komodo dragon. I should have got your hair cut.'
    Â Â 'Komodo dragons don't have hair,' he sniffs disdainfully.
    Â Â My son may only be six but he has a great way of putting me in my box.
    Â Â A small boy about his age runs up to him.
    Â Â 'Do you like football?'
    Â Â Does a Scotsman like whisky?
    Â Â Ollie nods.
    Â Â 'Do you speak Mallorcan?'
    Â Â 'Maybe,' he says. Enigmatic as ever.
    Â Â 'I'm Sebastià. See you at break.'
    Â Â Ollie nods gravely and Sebastià trots off.
    Â Â A school bell sounds and there's bedlam. Everyone's running to take his or her place in line. They seem to know the procedure. We don't. Suddenly I feel a little hand in mine as Ollie looks up at me pleadingly.
    Â Â 'Where do I go, Mummy? Where? Quick!'
    Â Â I turn round to make sense of what's happening but the headmistress is already bearing down on us, beaming like a jolly Butlins Red Coat, enveloping my son in a huge embrace. She grasps his free hand and gives me a reassuring wink.
    Â Â 'Come with me, poppet. Mummy will be back later.'
    Â Â He throws me an inscrutable look and walks with her to the back of a line of small children. I stand transfixed. Will he be OK? Should I accompany him? As if reading my mind, he looks back at me and shakes his head, indicating with his eyes that I should go.
    Â Â I think back to his previous sanitised existence at St George's in Pimlico run by the ghastly Priscilla EggertonSmith. On one of the last days of the school term, I had deposited him as usual on the front steps where all the other little boy bugs were collecting in their stripy green shirts, grey woollen shorts and caps. The hideous Eggerton-Smith, with rotund white chignon sitting squat on her head like an albino toad, bent towards him frostily. 'Good Morning, Jamie! Remember