Underage Spanish Dwarf - a true, 'short' story

The Lead Up.

Apparently the kingdom’s economy was crumbling. Friday through Sunday no longer existed in the four-day week that’d been declared by the government. But marking off the days till his first ever trip out of the country, going to visit Auntie Margaret across the border in England, Sebastian suspected the calendar, neatly tacked between a bunch of grinning Mormon brothers and two dog-eared world atlases, of being deceitful. That is, until he realised the truth of it; politicians were all liars. No, he wasn’t stupid; been to bed twice since Wednesday already and yet the end of the restructured week was still two days away. No doubt that also meant a full five-week wait, and not just the recalculated four under the new system until the dawn of his second era. Yes, double digits a long time coming. He couldn’t wait to be grown up. Taken seriously. But for days that weren’t supposed to have existed at all, he thought it’d been much longer than the 48hrs he’d painstakingly endured until the day of departure actually arrived.

The hair salon had transformed his mother to a second-rate Marilyn Munroe lookalike just the day before, looking beautiful as a blonde... again. Wanted to look younger than her little sister Margaret whom she’d hadn’t seen in nearly two years, she’d said, patting her hair, as Doreen McDougal, up for coffee... again, had told how her fabulous it looked. But it was a crazed version of Albert Einstein, the next day, materialised out of one of his encyclopaedias that proved a small suitcase could disturb the physics of balance on the shelves of Sebastian’s mysterious box room world as she burst into it first thing that morning, harassed and trying to get the entire family organised for the trip.

“I don’t have the space or the time, so you’ll need to pack your own case… she said, no nonsense about her, “and only one fancy dress costume, mind.”

But before he could object that she should be doing it for him; that he was still only a kid at nine-yrs-old after all, screams from beyond the portal that led to the vast corridors of the inhospitable worlds of other rooms, sucked her physical being back to her own working class continuum where she would no doubt unfold numerous not so anomalous fabrications spewing from her two youngest's mouths as they each blamed the other for managing to break the lava-lamp that they just couldn’t leave alone; Sebastian having told them that if they rubbed and rubbed it hard enough, the wax inside would actually turn out to be a genie and it would grant them three wishes each if ever released from its hell.

“And tidy up that bloody pigsty,” she shouted back at him, completely unsympathetic that her bursting the door open hard against the wall, had unnerved his strange assortment of belongings on the precariously constructed shelves that might have belonged to a nineteenth century child, a penchant for collecting stuff at jumble sales, as he had. “Dae ye hear me?”

Hard not to, what with her voice being omnipotent an’ all - unlike the rest of her, which, self-admittedly, couldn’t be everywhere at once, he had to agree. But sick of hearing her nagging, in addition to his talented subconscious predisposition for mimicry, his eyes rolled as his sisters learned that their heads just might be following suit; actually believing their mother’s rubbish that the Queen beheaded people in England for much less than their god-awful ear-splitting squealing.

“Jist like Mary, Queen o' Scots...God rest her soul,” she said, perhaps rather belatedly, Sebastian thought; if the French queen’s soul hadn’t rested in well over five centuries, well, perhaps there was no hope at all for her. But then, that’s why they called him a smartarse. ‘Brainbox’, his Da called him, ‘too bloody clever fur his ain guid that yin.’ Sebastian had heard him say on many an occasion.

And yes, he was too, for regardless of any degradation to the riches he’d heard that were secreted away in what his Da called ‘Chancellor Aladdin’s cave’, and an economic state of affairs that had seen the working man's fags and booze go up in price ‘yit a-bloody-gain’, as well as being responsible for what’d actually only turned out to be a shorter work week that, rather unfairly, didn’t apply to schooldays, Sebastian’s own global economy remained safe indeed. Yes, some day he’d be able to buy a ticket to one of the countries depicted on the small piggy bank that took pride of place on the top of the bagsied radiogram he’d gotten when they’d upgraded to an 8-tack stereo. Worth a fortune now, had to be; he’d been stuffing it with every penny he could steal out of his mother’s purse, and that which he'd found down the back of the sofa not to mention his Da’s overall pockets, for the last year. Spain probably, for money was worth a lot more in that country, William Bennett had told him so, they swapped a hundred pesetas for just one quid there. He’d be rich. Stupid spicks, he thought.

But the weekends spent at his best friend’s parent’s country home, a far cry from their terraced home in suburbia, had unequivocally elicited the Little Lord Fauntleroy from him, his parent’s liked to say, albeit in words nowhere near as fancy as that. Yes, an already pernickety Sebastian, not helped by William’s headmaster father and history teacher mother’s lifestyle rubbing off; overflowing into his real life to show him just how little they actually had.

‘They’re turnin’ him into a softie like their sons,’ his Da had said. ‘He’s even started eating fish and chips wae cutlery fur Christ’s sake.’

‘And at the kitchen-table nae less,” his mother had chirped in completely disappointed with such good manners.

And normal things, like drinking from anyone else’s soda can, were no-no's now too:

‘No-o desire to contract herpes, thank you very much,’ his father would mimic.

‘Even pardons himself after burpin’ for Goad’s sake,’ his older brother had said as if that was the clincher.’

‘Is he no supposed to be swerrin’ at his age?’ His youngest sister commented, only to be met by some incredulous stares, surprising them all; at four-yrs-old, swapping her arse potty for one that fit in her mouth quite well, it had to be said; an aficionado in the art of cursing and puzzling them all, for no one had 'a fucking clue where she got it from'.

Yes, he needed toughening up, and thus, an informed decision was made by all to buy a coach ticket too for the rather rambunctious Gary MacDougal. Yes, his boy’s boy influence would most certainly do the trick - and hopefully before Sebastian got his head kicked in for being such a snob; only a matter of time before the gang at the end of the street would contend with being told that they’d amount to nothing hanging outside the fish and chip shop all day and all night long, not to mention instructing them to pick up their litter; that that's what rubbish bins were for, and getting away with it only because his older brother was the leader of the pack. Plus, only a bang on the ceiling, and not a country trek, brought Sebastian home from Gary’s parent’s place. And he wouldn’t need a clean set of clothes for Sundays.

Hadrian’s Wall

As it transpired, the squiggly red line on the map denoting the border between the countries was, in the real world, actually an ancient wall which had Gary declaring rather vociferously that Englishmen hadn’t existed at all until a Scotsman had jumped over it and fucked a pig. Shocked, but nevertheless, Sebastian found it funny, considered enlightening Pauline about that even. At only one year younger, and in a quest of her own to grow up, becoming competitive even, catching on to his trick of looking up a long word herself in the dictionary and using it on him every day, she’d inevitably tell Mum, who hadn’t seemed to hear; engrossed in her ‘Woman’s Own’ magazine as she got, looking at fashions she’d never afford. But he thought twice about it; the 'bellybutton incident' still seeming brand ‘spanking’ new, stinging his face even from a year ago during their last holiday, house-sitting for their grandparents while they were off living it up properly in the 'Costa fucking fortune'. Yes, Mum had known instantly that the word ‘navel’ hadn’t come out of Pauline’s mouth when she’d asked her what that meant. But then, her patience had long since departed by that point, probably accompanied her parents-in-laws’ glass door and intricate chandelier that had been smashed to smithereens during an impromptu indoors golf game that’d been initiated by Sebastian too. Apparently, it would’ve been cheaper to fly the whole bloody family to Spain that year – just like the Bennett’s did every year.

‘It’s no fair!’ Sebastian would say on a constant basis; shoving travel brochures in his parent’s faces.

‘Neither’s the hair on a darkie’s leg,’ his Dad always chuckled in a time when racist remarks were yet to be considered offensive.

Still, if penetrating his neighbour, incestuous, as that phrasing seemed to him if he was understanding it correctly, was all they could afford, then it was better than going back to Glasgow, only twenty minutes away on a train. But then again, Glasgow wasn’t an option anymore; that was as clear as the plain glass they’d replaced his snooty grandparent’s thick mottled and frosted door with, yes, nearly as see through as the plastic in the chandelier that they’d hoped had been a good substitution for crystal.

Of course, being a 'brainbox', Sebastian knew all about the great wall that ‘Jackie Stewart; World Champion race car driver’ had been monotonically droning on about, extracurricular to his coach driver’s duties, as the bus whizzed precariously alongside it, making its way towards the car park and the roadside facilities.

“Hadrian constructed it to define the Roman Empire’s borders.” The driver shouted through his hacking, apparently the bus company not willing to shell out for a microphone or throat lozenges.

“Actually... hundrets o’ soldiers built it, ya stupit eejit. An’ they only did tae keep oot mad Scotsmen like you,” Sebastian shouted, standing in the aisle, three rows back, as the rest of the passengers laughed.

Mum, looking up now, bit her lip ‘not’ gazing at the ‘Eiffel Tower’ in the distance - actually an outsized electricity pylon that Sebastian had pointed out earlier; convincing the little ones that they were now in Paris, which therefore meant it was time for them all to go ‘oui oui’. Mrs Bennett would’ve been impressed, Sebastian’s delivery ‘Pointe fact’, whatever the hell that meant. But an overenthusiastic brake slam soon lost her smirk to the tangled web of what was supposed to be a blonde beehive in front of her, remarkably the woman who owned it, so fat that the bus’s sudden halt hadn’t budged her one bit. In fact she might've been dead.

“Stoap the bus, why don’t ye mister?” Gary said, swinging himself out the door before it’d even opened properly, while everybody else picked up their belongings and each other's small children from where they’d rolled under the seats, some taking the opportunity to pilfer from other people’s bags.

About to whiz a not-so invisible squiggly line of Gary’s own, up, down and across Hadrian’s handiwork, no doubt erected with the purpose of keeping mad Scotsmen like him out, his substitute mother, minus certain rights, watched him deeply exhaling the smoke from her much needed cigarette - puffing in the fresh country air satisfying her much more than the second-hand smoke from the back of the bus that she hadn’t felt right about letting the children sit amidst. 'Naw... much purer at the front', she'd said, and with no seats left at the back anyway, she felt a bit awkward standing outside the toilet door every time she fancied one, listening to the burst of diarrhoea that the young woman sitting somewhere in the middle kept running to, to dispel.

“Naw, son, don’t piss there, the bogs are inside ye ken,” she said wondering if Doreen McDougal had taught her son anything at all.

Ears like a bat, ‘Gazzer’s’ constant cursing throughout the trip hadn’t gone unnoticed by her at all, and now this; the boy obviously had no manners or sense of decency about him whatsoever. No, her Sebastian was positively perfect compared to him, she thought albeit too late, stuck with Doreen McDougal’s oldest brat for two weeks. Aye, the bitch certainly knew what she was dain’, palming him oaf oan me, she thought, despite the whole plan being her idea.

But the amusement at her son’s witty anecdotes and impossible questions about distant castle turrets that he could somehow define as being 16^th or 17 century during the remaining journey, and the clever and funny mind that she was fast gaining a new appreciation for, even if it did drive her crazy sometimes, was spoiled now. Her re-evaluation of just what influence Gary McDougal might have on his innocence over the next fortnight, coming too late; she’d take poofy little William Bennett and his family any day. And so, right there and then, despite her cut week at the glassware factory, she resolved to make a better effort to send him to Spain with them the following summer - regardless of what Da thought about them being ‘fucking snobby, snooty bastards’. God only knew what Margaret would think when she met the boy; her sister sounding positively pretentious on the phone these days, talk about snobby, Margaret so far above her station, so self centered that they’d created I M in addition to A M And F M. Two years living in England and squeaking like the bloody queen, she thought. And a fact proven when Margaret had met them at the bus station; not only talking like her royal highness, but dressed in a canary yellow coat and a hat with enough fruit on it to feed a small African village, plastic be damned... when you’re hungry your'e hungry.

The Off-Licence

With no apparent consideration to the fact that their unsupervised children were underage, anal retentiveness yet to be implemented on a broader scope by Social Services in general in those days and child molesters few and far between, the adults issued the children with a very familiar warning, as they left them to their own devices.

“The pub’s jist up the road, we could be back at any minute,” they’d said, but all knowing that that was ridiculous; they were working class after all, despite the clothes auntie Margaret wore, no, they’d be chucked out at the end of the night, singing 'My Old Man's a Dustbin Man', and maybe ending up in a rubbish bin themselves.

“Fuckin’ hell I’m gaggin’ for a beer ma’sel.” Gary said with a contrived gruffness designed to impress cousin Belinda’s budding boobies and which seemed to be working as she held her chest out to emphasise her mother's stockings that she'd stuffed down there.

“Lee it tae me.” Sebastian said, a problem solver, a thinker, a 'brainbox' and an actor to boot; he’d packed his own case after all, had a plethora of disguises with him, despite what his Ma had said, that might just to the trick.

Yes, a beer would go nicely with his acquiesce to indulge Gazzer’s breathtaking promise to teach him how to smoke, and not only that, but how to blow smoke rings as well – and, apparently, with the approach of his tenth birthday in a few more weeks, ‘aboot bloody time anaw, ya poofter.’

And so it happened; his demise; ‘The Three Crows’ Off-licence, attached at the other end of the pub where his mother was bitching over a pint of bitter about what a mistake it was to bring the common as muck neighbour boy along, saw an upstart fourth crow’s debut performance.

“Buenos Aires Señor. Um… ten Embassy Regal… and two cans of yer finest ale … grassy ass very much.” Sebastian said.

“Get outta here ya cheeky little bastard!”

“Excusez-moi! I mean… por favor… Señor… I ham heighteen-yeears-old. I ham but a … Spanish dwarf,” he said trying again; striving for the best indignity he could while using a combination of foreign language that he had absolutely no knowledge of outside of watching the boring foreign films on a Monday night on BBC2

“Yeah? Well ye might have stopped growing shortarse, but I doubt ye’ll see yer next birthday… me laddie!” the barman said, flipping the counter top lid not to mention that of the Madre del ‘Salvador Dalí’’, when his handlebar moustache steered through her son via the adjoining corridor into the bar, his jet-black bushy eyebrows and facial hair thought so-o realistic on his 9^th birthday, vying against her glare for the best-mortified expression ever. Yes, perhaps the local pub where everybody knew everybody else’s name, and where the bartender had already tried to hit on his Marilyn Munroe cum Einstein lookalike mother and, generally putting two and two together, what with his and her Scottish accents an' all, wasn’t the best idea that had ever come into Sebastian’s beautiful 'brainbox' mind.

Back at Home

Yes, grounded for the remainder of the summer, strangely, the shortened workweek had had the exact opposite effect for Sebastian; the weeks becoming even longer than ever before, his small box room tinier, it seemed. But despite the barman’s dire prediction, his young life’s clock had indeed finally started ticking with a second-hand as it struck ten. Older, and therefore significantly judicious, time to take stock of the plethora of childish costumes discarded neatly in banana boxes now, he thought, time to get rid of the encyclopaedias bound chronologically in A – Z along with every other fucking book in the place, the volumes of Enid Blyton that had set his adventures adrift, the science books that soared him to other possible worlds; no he didn’t need any of that shite now; this world was all he needed. That and Gazzer, his new best pal.

“Fuckin’ useless pieces o shite,” he said, specifically aimed at the dress up boxes, the 'f' word well practised after weeks of having only Gaz and his youngest little sister for company.

The items wouldn’t make enough to pay for two flights to Spain, the promise of which would be flying solo now, he knew that, but the crap in their mother’s closets definitely would. According to his new best friend at the other end of a tin can and piece of string, there would be stuff in there the bitches would never miss.

“Hand-me-down fur coats, party dresses, shoes. Jewellery even... hairdryers...” Gazzer said, “And then there’s their record collections; it’s all really old stuff anyway... they’ll miss you before it.“

Stubbing out his smoke on the outside of the windowsill, Sebastian slipped out his knife; the sharp gleaming birthday gift that Gazzer had given him together with a packet of smokes, had slid with Swiss precision into the belly of the piggy bank as he examined exactly where in the world he'd pierced it.

“Hmmm… Brazil… they don’t... expedite... from there,” he said, wondering if that was actually the right word. It sounded right, but then he couldn’t be bothered to look it up as he counted his getaway money; no more need for his dictionary. "Tut... no even enough tae get tae Glesga."

The end

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